


The Sky Begins to Roar

by lettered



Series: Words And Not Deeds [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Contemplation of Self-Harm, Daryl Dixon & Carol Peletier Friendship, Daryl/Rick pre-slash, Domestic Violence, Found Family, Friendship, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, OMC/Daryl dubious consent, OMC/Daryl humiliation, Pining, Praise Kink, Trust-building, Whump, minor appearance of other TWD characters, non-graphic drug-use, references to infidelity, unrealistic handling of issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: The apocalypse didn’t happen, and so Carol remains in an abusive relationship.  When Daryl meets her, he finds himself in a position to help her.  Wanting to help Carol also, Rick enlists Daryl’s aid.  Sophia just wants to be a normal twelve-year-old.Daryl’s never had this many people counting on him before.  It changes him, though he’ll never be what Rick seems to think he is.





	1. Chapter 1

*

Rick and Daryl met because of Merle. 

Daryl hadn’t made a good first impression, yelling and swearing in the lockup until the deputy came around to see what was up. The deputy said he was Rick Grimes and that he had been the one to arrest Merle. 

Daryl almost punched him, but he didn’t. Another deputy got him in a chokehold—illegal, Daryl said—then Rick told him to keep a level head. 

Daryl said fuck you but he’d stopped fighting. Needed to get out of there before he started crying like some sort of pussy. It was just jail. Merle probably deserved it. Daryl would come up with a way to pay for everything, even if Merle had just blown the whole two thousand dollars he’d saved up on fucking meth. Which then had been confiscated by the police. Not even good for resale.

Next time Daryl met Rick was one month later, over a little girl named Sophia Peletier. 

Daryl was hunting in the woods—illegally, as it was private property, even if they didn’t mark it too well—when he heard the yelling. Hadn’t wanted to get involved, on account of whoever was doing said yelling had scared off the deer he’d been hunting. Must be either more hunters or a camp nearby. Some idiot was crashing through the brush, calling, “Sophia! Sophia!”

Forty-five minutes later the yelling was still going on. The woman’s voice was getting hoarse, and it finally occurred to Daryl that it might not just be a bunch of loudmouth idiots. Might actually be something wrong.

He followed the voice, easily tracking through the woods. Came up behind the woman and said, “All that hollering gonna wake the dead.”

Lady whipped around. Thin, pretty, older, gray. Short-cropped hair and a delicacy to her face that put him in mind of a painting, not that he thought about such things. “Who the hell are you?” she asked him.

“The fuck were you yelling for?” he asked her.

The look on the woman’s face quickly morphed from surprise into extreme distress. “Sophia. My daughter—she’s only twelve. We were . . . she wandered off.”

“Maybe if you’d put a leash on her,” Daryl said.

“Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?” Lady started coming toward him then seemed to finally see the crossbow, loose at his side. Eyes darted up to his and fear filled her up again.

“Chill out,” Dary said, hefting the crossbow over his shoulder. “Where’d you last see her?”

Lady had begun backing up. “Who—who are you?”

Daryl rolled his eyes. “I said chill out. Ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Lady drew herself up. “Who are you?”

“Daryl.” He started walking, gesturing off in a slightly different direction than before. “Your car out that way? Maybe she tried to get back to the road.” He stopped, looked back. “You coming?”

She looked around. Then she started to follow.

Brave, he realized, once he understood that she probably thought he was a serial killer and had buried her daughter in a cave somewhere. As they walked, she reached out to hold some branches back and he caught sight of the bruises circling her wrist, a dusky bracelet. 

“You with your man?” he heard himself say suddenly. Wasn’t much for talking but here he was striking up a conversation. Go figure.

“My man?” She glanced up coyly. “What is this, 1950s?”

A liar, then. Side-stepping. “He looking too?” Daryl persisted.

Lady glanced nervously back over her shoulder. “He’s at the camp,” she said, then seemed to realize how that sounded. “In case Sophia comes back.” She glanced up at him—still sure he was a serial killer, but less nervous of him than what was back there. Daryl understood how that could be. “I’m Carol,” she said.

She was still walking strong, slim shoulders back. “I was out hunting,” he said, wanting to give her something, reassure her somehow.

She eyed his crossbow. “With that?”

“Quieter than a gun.”

“Who are you hiding from?”

“Man, what you think? Deer.” He held some branches back for her. “Vicious creatures.” She brushed past him and he let the branches go.

*

Three hours later, they still hadn’t found the little girl.

At first, Carol had talked, telling Daryl that she, her husband, and daughter had been camping—not a vacation, she’d clarified. Her husband just hadn’t wanted to pay for a motel. Sounded like a real piece of work. Over the last two hours she’d grown quieter and quieter, but Daryl’s eyes kept sliding over toward her, unable to stop looking at that bracelet of bruises.

Delicate skin. Fragile wrists. Pretty bones, those lilac smudges soft as flower petals.

The last hour, she stopped talking altogether. Once when Daryl’s eyes slid over to her he saw the shine in her eyes, but she quickly dashed away tears with the back of her hand, not even aware Daryl had seen. She didn’t make a sound.

She made his hands itch. He wasn’t really the sort to help people, but he knew the woods. He was good at this, useful for once—except for the fact he couldn’t find the trail. He moved ahead to hold some branches for her again, and that was when he saw it.

The season was late for them to bloom. Stooping, he bent the stem, pulled it off.

She looked at him, down at his hand, back up, confused. “A flower?”

“It’s a Cherokee Rose.”

She didn’t know the story, so he told it to her.

Lips pressed together, Carol took the rose.

*

After three hours they went back to the camp, where Daryl met Ed. Kinda felt like punching him in the eye, but didn’t bother. They were out of cell phone range and missing a little girl, only had the three of them adults to look for her. The month was October—still temperate in Georgia, but could get down into the fifties at night. 

Ed said Carol should take the car up the road some and try to make a call; Daryl thought she shouldn’t go alone but didn’t want to argue with Ed. That would make it worse for her, and what if Ed was the one that done something to Sophia? Daryl wouldn’t put it past this fuckwad. Best if Daryl was here to deal with Ed and Carol was far away as possible, so Daryl said he and Ed could search while Carol left. 

She didn’t want to do it but was afraid to argue. Meanwhile Ed obviously didn’t want Daryl helping them, but there weren’t much he could do. They split up to search the woods, Daryl along the creek and Ed along the road. Daryl did think the creek was a good option, but nevertheless he circled back to the road a few times to track Ed, just in case.

Later on he picked up a trail, which provided some good evidence that at least it weren’t Ed who’d hid the girl away or beat or killed her. Followed it along a bit until he found a doll, freshly dropped in the creek and down a bluff. By then it was too dark to carry on and he hadn’t brought a flashlight, so he headed back to camp.

The camp, however, was bright white with floodlights. Police were everywhere—three squad cars, and who should be in the thick of it but that fucker who’d put Merle away, Deputy Rick fucking Grimes.

“You,” Rick said, seeing him first, and another cop rushed him.

“The fuck,” said Daryl, as the cop grabbed him.

“Shane,” said Rick.

 _Deputy Walsh_ —the one who got him in that chokehold last time.

“Step off, man,” Daryl told Shane, trying to twist out of his grasp, but Shane was fast and strong.

The doll went down in the scuffle.

“ _Shane_ ,” Rick said. Ran up toward them, picked up the doll, pulled Shane back. “Lay off.”

“You know this asshole?” said Shane, gripping Daryl’s arm.

“It’s Dixon, right?” asked Rick.

Daryl glared.

Rick looked back at Shane. “Mrs. Peletier said a man named Daryl was helping them.” He nodded at Daryl. “This is Daryl Dixon. Remember Merle Dixon? Put him away a few weeks back.”

Shane didn’t let go. “You think this fucker’s helping? Coming out of the woods all methed out with a buck knife?”

Rick held up the doll. “Where did you find this?” he asked Daryl. When Daryl didn’t answer, Rick looked back at Shane again. “Let him go.”

“Rick,” said Shane.

“Where’d you find this?” Rick asked again, and Shane let him go.

Interesting. Rick was a lot smaller than Shane, more compact. Lean and whipcord rather than big and brawny. But there was something of command in Rick’s face, in his voice, and Shane obviously responded to it too.

Daryl made a show of rubbing his arm where Shane had gripped it.

“Where’d you find it?” Rick said again, tilting his head, a bit more up in Daryl’s face.

“In the woods,” Daryl spat. Still rubbing his arm, Daryl looked around. Goddamn police were everywhere. Sure, if Sophia were just lost, they’d find her. But if there were some kinda freak out there in the woods—if Ed had done something to her—they might never get her, the ruckus they were making. Broadcasting their moves from miles away.

But then Daryl saw Carol—goddamn cop trying to put a blanket over her shoulders and she wasn’t having any of it, wringing her hands and desperate-looking. She wanted to go out into the woods, be out searching, and Daryl knew exactly how she felt. They were both trapped here.

“Daryl,” she shouted, rushing over to him, cops on her heels.

“Found that.” He nodded at the doll.

Carol took it from Rick. “Where?” she asked breathlessly.

Daryl glanced at Rick, paused, then jerked his head back the way he’d come. “Up there a ways. By the creek. Looks like she followed it a while.”

“Show me,” said Rick.

Daryl looked at Rick suspiciously. “Ain’t you got hounds?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Shane. “Let’s take this guy into custody. He obviously knows where she is, had something to do with the kidnapping—”

“We don’t know if she’s been kidnapped,” Rick said, his voice firm and steady, arm shooting out to steady Carol, who had gasped. “Daryl, you said it looked like she followed the creek a while. How could you tell?”

 _Held a séance_ , Daryl wanted to snap, but then looked at Carol. Looked reluctantly back at Rick. “I can hunt. A little. Usually deer.”

“You do that here?” Rick asked.

Daryl shrugged.

“This is private property,” said Shane.

“Take us there,” said Rick.

Loud cops with their flashing lights were the last thing Daryl wanted to take after some little girl, not if she’d been carried off by some serial killer rapist. But Daryl hadn’t seen signs of two people, just one little one, and light and noise were the best way to find her if she really was just lost. And there was no way he was getting out of this anyway, so finally he agreed to it.

Rick and Shane came along with four other cops, Shane eyeing Daryl suspiciously the whole way. They made Carol stay back at the camp—in case Sophia came back, they said, but really they just didn’t want to keep track of her too. Ed must be back there somewhere, hell knew if he cared.

Daryl showed them the spot he’d found the doll, and Rick asked him to point out the trail. Kept that same high intensity and low voice he’d had back at the camp—and back when he’d talked down Daryl at the lockup too, something steady and fierce about him that almost reluctantly made Daryl trust him.

What was even worse about it was how trim his hips were, slim everywhere but a flare to his shoulders that was just enough. Daryl noticed it even in the darkness of the woods, and hated that he noticed it.

He knew he was gay. Had a boyfriend, even. Kind of. Anyway got fucked by a man on a fairly regular basis and had sucked enough cock that he couldn’t claim otherwise. But he didn’t talk about it, not even to his boyfriend really, and certainly never to anyone else. Didn’t even like to admit it, and still hated the part of himself that was that way. Hated the part of himself that was noticing the stretch of a fucking _cop_ uniform over a fucking cop’s shoulders, the way it was neat and clean-cut and went down smooth to Rick’s narrow waist and gorgeous fucking hips; it wasn’t right.

Jesus.

When they found Sophia, she was unconscious. Had hit her head on a rock and tumbled down into a little lee where it would’ve been tough to find her, hidden behind some brambles as she was, if Daryl hadn’t known how to follow a lead. Certainly the cops were useless.

They didn’t want to move her in case of spinal injury, so they got the paramedics out there and the whole shebang. Finally allowed Carol to go out to where she’d fallen, but couldn’t get an ambulance close enough and had to carry Sophia out on a stretcher. She woke up during the whole process which was a good sign, but she hadn’t been able to say much before going out again so they didn’t know if she was concussed or what; they’d figure it out at a hospital.

An hour into it a man with a white beard appeared on the scene—not a cop. “Bystander” was the way he registered, but the way the cops were talking with him, seemed he might have something to do with it. Another forty-five minutes passed before Daryl learned that the man was Hershel Greene—the farmer who owned this land. Likely the cops were talking to him about the trespassing; who knew what the guy thought of it.

Getting the girl out was a rigmarole that lasted three hours all-told before the girl and her parents went into the ambulance. Through it all Daryl kept thinking about the bruises on Carol’s wrist, and her little girl running off. Probably weren’t a coincidence. Probably girl ran off because her daddy was mean, and something worse was gonna happen if no one did nothing.

But no one did do anything, and just before she got in the ambulance Carol hugged him. Said, “You saved my baby girl. Did more for her than—than most people would have.”

“It weren’t nothing,” Daryl said gruffly, uncomfortable because women didn’t hug him, not ladies like her anyway.

“It was everything,” she said. Held on a little longer, then began to pull away.

“Hold up,” he said. Held onto her arms and didn’t know what he was doing for a second, with her looking so pretty and grateful but still so sad, too delicate. “You,” he started to say, then had to start again. “I gotta give you my phone number,” he said instead.

She pulled away, fear flashing across her face. 

“For if you . . . so you can tell me how Sophia is,” Daryl said. 

“Oh,” said Carol, looking uncertain.

“I won’t be no trouble,” Daryl said quickly. Then added, “Not if you don’t want me to be.”

For a moment she stared at him, not seeming to understand. Then she reached out, squeezed his arm. “You’re a good man.”

Daryl looked around, uncomfortable. He didn’t have a pen or nothing to write his number down on, and what if Ed saw it; that would be a mess. 

“I don’t need you protecting me,” said Carol.

“I’ll find you,” he said. 

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

Then she walked off into the lights, open ambulance white like the pearly gates with her daughter inside.

Husband waiting like the devil.

*

After that, police came to take Daryl’s statement about the incident. Officer asking questions told him to wait there, and Daryl guessed this was when the shit would hit the fan—he’d been hunting on private property after all, didn’t matter that Hershel Greene owned half the county and didn’t tend these parts. They’d bring him up on charges and that would be that. At least it’d make Deputy Walsh happy.

Daryl stood there shifting foot to foot and Rick came up through the light, looking like a goddamn hero. Daryl still hated himself that the fucking cop could look so good after this whole night’s worth of shit. Daryl didn’t have to be here at all, should’ve just kept going despite the hollering, but because of him they’d found the girl, and Rick had asked him for his help. Rick had trusted him, and Daryl hated how it made him feel because God, the stupid motherfucker looked so good, striding up through the camp bowlegs and all.

“How you doing?” Rick said, like it was Daryl’s daughter that had gone missing.

Daryl scowled.

Rick just nodded, as though he hadn’t expected any answer. Looked off in the direction the ambulance had gone, almost an hour ago now, and said, “Strange that little girl ran off that way,” he said, turning back to Daryl. “I mean that far. Got any idea why she’d do a thing like that?”

Daryl’s scowl deepened. “Ain’t none of my business.”

“Uh-huh.” Rick nodded, like he’d expected this too. “You didn’t hear anything, before they got split up?”

“Man, I told your officer. Never laid eyes on them before I heard her hollering.”

“Right,” said Rick. “And after you met Mrs. Peletier. You didn’t notice anything?”

“The fuck you talking about?”

“What about Mr. Peletier? You notice anything about him?”

Daryl looked at him warily. Could be just a stupid fucking cop asking questions. However, could also be . . . there was a minimal chance Rick had noticed Carol’s wrist as well. There was a tiny, infinitesimal possibility he was trying to help, and in that case . . . “What about him?” Daryl asked suspiciously.

“I dunno. Anything.” Rick shrugged. “Anything that maybe would cause a little girl to want to get away.”

Daryl glowered again. “Why you asking me?”

Rick was quiet for a moment, eyes running Daryl up and down. It made Daryl uncomfortable—he knew Rick wasn’t looking at him like _that_ , but Rick’s gaze was steady and firm, his jaw set hard even though his mouth looked soft, and Daryl burned with shame. He was the one looking at _Rick_ like that, and now was not the time. There was never a time for that; he didn’t even know how he could think like that about a fucking cop.

“You helped them,” Rick said. “You didn’t have to, could’ve walked away. Why didn’t you?”

Daryl shifted, uncomfortable all over again.

“You wanted to help Carol Peletier,” Rick said, his voice quite low. “I want to help her too.”

“Can I get her address?” Daryl blurted.

Rick blinked. “What?”

“I can check in. At least make sure she’s safe.”

Rick started shaking his head. “I can’t disclose a citizen’s private address. Not if she doesn’t want to give it to you—”

“She ain’t safe.”

“I know.”

“Then why don’t you fucking arrest him?”

Rick just stood there.

“Fucking cops,” Daryl said, turning away.

“Daryl.”

Then Rick was closer to him, smelling like the woods and sweat and maybe a little of cologne, the heat of him and the rough brush of his shirt against Daryl’s arm, the hot skin of Rick’s hand on Daryl’s wrist. Daryl twisted out of his grasp. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“I can get her your number,” Rick said. “Try to convince her to call you.”

It was more than Daryl had expected, even if it still wasn’t enough. 

“You know I can’t arrest him,” said Rick. “She’d have to report it, and even then I’d need probable cause. My hands are tied. But yours aren’t. You’re what I’ve got in this situation.”

 _Show me_ , Rick had said, asking Daryl to take him to where he’d found the doll. Asking for help while Deputy Walsh had wanted him arrested. Trusting him when not many people would have.

On Carol that trust had meant she had a fuck-ton of courage and a whiff of desperation. On Rick Daryl didn’t know what it meant. That Rick was stupid, maybe. 

Daryl couldn’t help it; that trust filled him up, just like Carol’s had. He wanted to _do_ something and there were two people in the world who thought he could.

He would try.


	2. Chapter 2

Carol did call him—weeks later, five in the fucking morning. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You probably don’t remember me. This is Carol Peletier. You helped me find my—”

“I remember you,” Daryl said quickly, voice rough with sleep. “You need something?”

“That cop said you wanted me to have your number,” she said. “He made sure to give it to me when Ed couldn’t see.”

“Where you at?” Daryl grabbed a pair of jeans.

“A gas station.”

“I’m ‘a come get you.”

There was a pause. “We just need a ride. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Sit tight.”

*

Carol and Sophia stayed at his trailer for two days after he picked them up at the gas station. Sophia had fully recovered from her ordeal in the woods. But for the scar on her head where the hair was growing over, she was a normal twelve-year-old, pretty and sweet. 

The trailer weren’t really a fit place for a little girl—trash in the yard, nothing but beer in the fridge, Merle’s dirty magazines all over the place. Daryl had shuffled things around for them, trying to make it okay for them to stay; he wanted them to feel safe. Flushed five ounces of coke down the toilet and picked up his laundry, threw the magazines and trash away.

When he came back from the grocery store with things he thought girls might like—granola, apples, lemonade, real turkey, the kind you have to ask them to cut—Carol was wearing rubber gloves and cleaning like she was getting paid for it. “I didn’t know we had those,” he said, nodding at the rubber gloves.

“I like to feel useful,” Carol said.

At least Merle was still in jail. They could sleep on Merle’s bed when the sheets got clean; Carol’d already stripped the bed so they could take the linens to the laundromat. Daryl wanted to give Sophia his bed but Carol wouldn’t let him, said she could sleep with Sophia in Merel’s bed. Daryl thought about how he could buy Sophia toys to make up for it—what did little girls like? Barbies or coloring books, animals maybe? Ponies. Little girls liked ponies, right?

Daryl couldn’t believe Carol was doing this, staying here like this. He couldn’t believe she was _letting_ him, letting him give them a place to stay, trusting that they would be safe with him; no one could hurt them. Sophia didn’t have to be afraid or run off into the woods and he never would have had the idea to do this on his own, not ever. 

This wasn’t something he had thought he wanted; Carol was the wrong gender, just for starters. A kid? Buying toys and washing sheets for people? That sort of shit wasn’t his thing. Aside from his intermittent work at the garage mostly he drank and got high and went hunting, not always in that order. Intermittently he got fucked by the man he’d met in an alley behind a gay bar, and every once in a while he shot pool or darts. 

But he was doing it—not just the sheets but cleaning the whole house and making granola for a pair of pretty gals who smiled and said thank you. Carol was a lady—a _real_ lady, and Sophia was a peach, and Carol had _asked_. She’d asked Daryl for his help and no one had ever done that before. She trusted him, and he could make a place for her, something away and safe and kind, something he had never had.

If Merle had been here Daryl wouldn’t’ve done it. He knew he wouldn’t’ve. Merle would’ve laughed at him. He’d’ve pointed out how stupid it was, how weak they were, how weak they made Daryl. He would’ve told Daryl he was gonna fail and Daryl would’ve believed him, because Merle was a shithead but he was sensible, more sensible than Daryl. More honest with himself.

But now there was Carol and Sophia.

Two days later Daryl left to go buy a lawn mower and she was gone when he got back. Didn’t call again for three weeks, and Daryl like a fucking idiot hadn’t gotten her address.

But he had this lawn mower now, and the house was spic and span. He could clean up so next time, it’d be nice for them. They’d want to stay longer, long enough for Carol to get away from that asshole, long enough for her to see she didn’t need him. She had a place to go.

Daryl started picking up hours at the garage after that, put in even more time than he was getting paid for. The manager was impressed enough that he offered him a real job, not the temp under-the-table stuff he’d been doing for a few months. Daryl took it, careful to always show up on time, never hungover. Never did get more coke, kept the yard clean, did his laundry more. Had to have enough money if he was going to be buying fucking ponies.

*

Jake called about four days after Carol left. He worked in sales or something so he was often out of town; Daryl was never really sure when he’d be around.

“Been a while, sweetheart,” said Jake. “Mind if I come by?”

Daryl looked around the trailer. Somehow it seemed a little wrong, having Jake over now. Daryl was trying to make it nice and the things he did with Jake were . . . not nice. Nothing nice about getting fucked against the wall, sucking cock, begging for it—getting it up the ass, the things Jake called him—it was unnatural, two men together like that. Carol probably wouldn’t like him if she knew. Wouldn’t want Sophia around someone who was like that, someone who did those sorts of things.

“Come on, baby,” said Jake. “Don’t be a tease.”

Daryl grunted. “Been fixing up the place.”

“The trailer?” Jake laughed. “Honey, ain’t much you can do to fix that place up.”

Daryl looked around. Jake always came over here, if Merle could be depended upon to be out, or else they went to a motel. Daryl had never been to Jake’s place. Deep down, Daryl knew it was so Jake could leave when he wanted. If Daryl had gone to Jake’s apartment, Jake would have to ask him to leave, and Jake was too nice to do that, didn’t want to have to kick him out. Besides, Jake’s job was pretty good; he probably had a nice apartment. Made sense he didn’t wanna have Daryl over to mess it up; he’d seen Daryl’s place and must’ve guessed how he sucked at housekeeping.

Still, Daryl hesitated. “I don’t wanna get high.”

“We’ll see about that, baby.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay, whatever you want.”

Jake was really good looking. Slender but strong-shouldered, legs a mile long. He could be a model for one of them camping gear stores, all rugged and ready to do work. His face was sweet, though—kind eyes, soft hair. 

He was nice, too—said things like, _Okay, whatever you want_ , even though when he was with Daryl was really the only time he got high. Only time he could really unwind, he said. He said Daryl relaxed him, and Daryl had never relaxed anyone before, not before Jake.

Daryl wasn’t really a fan of getting high, but Jake liked to do it together. Said it made him feel connected, and Daryl had never really been connected to anyone either, not unless you counted Merle.

“What’re you thinking about, honey?” Jake asked.

“Uh,” said Daryl. “When are you—when you coming over?”

“Take me an hour to get there. Eager, precious?”

Daryl grunted in acknowledgement—couldn’t bring himself to say yes, but the truth was he was eager. He always got eager when Jake called him things like that—honey, baby, sweetheart, like he was something special. Goddamn he was easy. He was a slut for it, just like Jake always said.

The shame washing over him did nothing to quell the arousal building in his gut.

“Maybe I’ll get my mouth on you,” Jake said. “You like that?”

Daryl had known this was coming—the dirty talk—but Jake sucking him off was a rare occurrence. He said he wasn’t good at it, didn’t like the taste, preferred to use his hand. Usually by the time Jake’s hand was on him Daryl didn’t care that Jake never reciprocated blowjobs; he’d take anything. He wanted anything.

“You like it, sweetheart?” Jake asked again. “My mouth on you, sucking you off? You want that?”

Daryl’s face was on fire. He couldn’t stand the thought of Jake sucking him off. It was both too good and not enough; all he wanted was to earn it. He couldn’t just lie there and enjoy something like that; it’d make him think too much about what he was, this sick thing he was—

When he got on his knees and took Jake in his mouth, that was all he was. All he had to think about. Getting Jake off. He knew that he was sick and dirty and nothing but he could make Jake feel good, make him feel so good and Jesus fucking Christ, Daryl _enjoyed_ it—enjoyed being nothing, enjoyed being sick and dirty for him—

But Jake sucking him. Jake _sucking_ him. Daryl couldn’t even remember the last time Jake had blown him.

“You want that,” said Jake. “I can tell you want it. Want my lips wrapped around your cock, don’t you, baby. Want me looking up at you, mouth stuffed full of you; that what you want?”

“Jake,” Daryl said, because it was too much; he couldn’t stand it; he never could. God, the _shame_ of it. Maybe it was the shame of it that got him off.

“Yeah, honey,” purred Jake. “Milk your cock with my mouth, baby. Milk you so good, suck you till you come. You like that? I think you like that. But . . . you know _I_ don’t like that.”

“Don’t have to,” Daryl said quickly.

“But I want to, honey. For you. Just . . .”

Daryl waited. His heart was going like a rabbit and he was half-hard in his pants and it was fine if Jake didn’t want to because Daryl shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t want it so much.

“Just,” said Jake, “it would really help if I was high, baby. Just a little—just to relax me. You know how it relaxes me. And then I’d suck you off. What do you think, honey?”

The thing was, Daryl knew he was being played. He _knew_ it. But it was just so hard to care, even though he should. Even though Merle would have been disgusted with him—disgusted even without all the gay parts. Even though Daryl looked around the trailer and how clean it was, how neat and tidy—just like a home. 

It didn’t matter, because Daryl really was just a slut for it. He wanted it so bad, and it wasn’t even the blow job really; it was just the way Jake made him feel—wanted. Desired. 

Daryl looked around the trailer and knew he’d fuck it all up for that; he’d let Jake do anything for that. He’d let Jake fuck him over the table and jack on his face and call him a dirty whore, because he was so messed up that he wanted that. He wanted Jake, the way Jake wanted him, the way Jake got off on him, the way Jake _needed_ him; he’d do anything for it.

“Yeah,” said Daryl. “Okay.”

*

Jake came over. He didn’t blow Daryl. They both got really fucking wasted.

*

Daryl finally did get Carol’s address. Got her phone number too. Didn’t get her to come back to the trailer, even as nice as it was now. He’d planted fucking flowers in the front. 

She called him from time to time and sometimes he came to visit. They’d go down to the park and Sophia would play if she wasn’t at school, and Ed would always be at work.

Carol would always have new bruises, the times Daryl came to visit.

Two months after Sophia got lost, Daryl drove up to her house on Merle’s motorcycle only to see a cruiser already parked in the driveway and goddamn _Rick Grimes_ coming out of the house.

Dressed in that clean-cut cop gear and Daryl couldn’t help but panic a bit. She’d called the cops? Was she that bad off? How come Rick was coming out—wasn’t he gonna help her?

“Dixon?” said Rick. “Daryl Dixon?”

“She alright?” Daryl asked, barely off his bike and coming up to the house.

Rick shook his head. “She won’t let me in.”

“She answer the door? How’d she look?”

“Not good,” said Rick. 

“You didn’t stay and help her?” Daryl started going up to the house.

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Rick.

Daryl whirled on him, and he was so pissed off. Rick had said he wanted to help, but so far he hadn’t done nothing but give Carol Daryl’s number. He wanted to help, where had he been? But of course cops never did know how to help anybody who actually needed them. Spent all their time scurrying after assholes like Merle who sure, was a meth head, but wasn’t hurting anyone much, whereas meanwhile Ed Peletier was a piece of work. “What’re you doing here?” Daryl spat out.

Rick’s brows went up, but he didn’t comment on the challenge. “Got a call about some yelling.”

“Some _yelling_? Neighbors don’t like the noise and you trot on over, but she answers the door all banged up and you move on, ‘nothing to see here’?”

Rick tilted his head. “Calm down,” he said in that level voice he had.

“I’m calm,” Daryl snapped, heading on up to the house again.

“I said hang on,” said Rick, then he was close, the smell of him fresh this time, Old Spice and shaving cream, hand calloused and strong, breath warm.

“Get off of me,” Daryl said, pulling back violently.

“Sorry,” said Rick, not looking sorry at all. “You know I can’t go in there unless she wants me. She didn’t want me. I reckon with you showing up here, she wanted you. That right?”

Daryl looked back at the house.

“She called on you,” Rick went on. “I’m guessing this isn’t the first time?”

Daryl looked back at Rick, feeling wary. If Carol had turned Rick away, she didn’t want to get the police involved. Daryl sure understood why, considering what cops were usually like. If he said more to this one, Carol’d probably be mad. But Rick had come out here just on account of a noise complaint, which maybe he did all the time, but maybe, just maybe, he’d done because he’d kept track of the Peletiers. Certainly seemed to be aware of the particulars, despite the fact it’d been two months since Rick had seen either one of them. 

“She trusts you,” Rick said.

Daryl didn’t understand why Rick had to look as good as he did. Something about his leanness, like he was made out of wire. Christ. His eyes were so fucking blue. 

“I told you before,” Rick said, “can’t go in there without a warrant. You’re the one she lets in. You’re the one who can help her.”

Daryl felt thick. Everything about him felt so thick, his throat all dense and cottony, his chest too full. Too hot inside, his skin too tight.

“You’ve gotta get me some evidence for probable cause,” said Rick. “Give me something. Anything.”

Daryl knew he was going to break out into a sweat and hated himself for it, hated himself for feeling this way, hated himself that just words like this— _I need your help, she trusts you, I believe you can do something good_ —made him feel this way. Goddamn he was weak. He was so weak.

“Daryl,” said Rick.

“Bruises ain’t evidence enough?” Daryl croaked.

Rick shook his head. “Not if she got them walking into a door.”

“Don’t get fingerprints on your arm walking into no doors.”

“I know.” Rick’s look was hard determination. “I get evidence I can use, I’ll take him into custody. You gotta help me, Daryl. Help me help her.”

Jesus Christ.

He’d’ve done anything Rick said.

*

Evidence he could use.

Pffft.

Pig cop. Talked big, but he was just like everybody else. Looked the other way when it was convenient, didn’t want the endless, messy saga of domestic abuse. Probably said things like, _if only she could help herself_ , didn’t bother to put himself in anybody’s else’s shoes, didn’t realize it weren’t that simple.

But Daryl couldn’t get Rick off his mind, the way he looked just like a movie or a magazine: clean-cut and honest face, lean and ready in his uniform, talking with a low and serious honey drawl about helping someone out. That was just a fantasy; they didn’t make them like that, but Daryl couldn’t stop thinking, _maybe he could help_.

Truth was he didn’t know what to do about Carol. Knew she weren’t in a position to run, might not be safe to ask for help. Knew she was okay with Daryl because Daryl understood, wouldn’t say nothing, wouldn’t try to make a fuss that could rile up Ed. Daryl was there for her, just there, but it was starting to feel wrong. He wasn’t doing enough. He had to help her somehow, but Rick was right—how could you unless you took Ed out of the situation entirely, and that was impossible without the evidence Rick had mentioned.

Daryl wasn’t thinking about that when he listened to the message in his voicemail. “Daryl Dixon,” said the message, “this is Deputy Rick Grimes. I wanted to talk to you about Carol Peletier.” He gave his callback info and Daryl stared at the phone for a minute after pressing “End”.

He didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t told Carol about the whole conversation with Rick outside her door that day. She’d been so banged up, didn’t need all that, just needed to know someone was there, someone she could count on, and Daryl kept hearing Rick’s voice in his ear: _she trusts you, she lets you in, you’re the one who can help her. I’m counting on you._

Daryl dialed the number and put the phone to his face.

“Rick Grimes,” said the phone.

“It’s Daryl,” said Daryl. “Dixon,” he added after, realizing maybe _Rick Grimes_ wasn’t sitting there on tenterhooks worried about Carol. “You called me about—”

“Carol Peletier.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said uncomfortably. Still felt weird. Like he was betraying Carol somehow.

“Just wanted to check in,” said Rick.

“Check in?” said Daryl. “She okay?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“Ain’t you the cop?”

“This is what cops do,” came Rick’s steady reply. “Maybe you aren't used to it, so I’ll explain. We think something’s going on, we look into it. Talk to the friends and neighbors. Find out what we can. It’s called being a presence.”

Daryl never noticed no cops _being a presence_ back when he was a kid. Could’ve used some of that busybody interference then. 

“You still there?” 

“Yeah,” Daryl said roughly.

“Good,” said Rick. “You got anything I can use?”

“Like what?”

“Witnesses,” said Rick. “People who’ve seen it happen, or seen evidence that it happens, either on Mrs. Peletier or the daughter. Anything that could get CPS involved—injury, negligence, malnutrition—”

“Sophia ain’t neglected,” Daryl snapped. “Carol’s a good mom. The best.”

“Is Sophia in danger?”

Daryl grimaced. “If I say yes, can you arrest him?”

“You could get CPS to come,” said Rick, “but you know they won’t take her unless they find evidence either, and I’m not looking to separate Sophia from her mother. _Is_ she in danger?”

“Man, what the fuck you think?”

“Visible bruises?” Daryl remained silent and Rick sighed. “Meet me for coffee.”

The bottom dropped out. “What?” Daryl asked hoarsely.

“I just wanna talk about it,” Rick said, his voice gentle. “Off the clock. Not official.”

“This ‘what cops do’? Part of ‘being a presence’?”

Another pause. “I don’t like that I know it’s happening and there’s nothing I can do about it. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Daryl didn’t trust him. And yet.

“And there is no excuse for a woman getting hit. Not by anybody, but least of all her husband. And that’s ten times worse if there’s a kid.”

“Okay,” Daryl heard himself say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Daryl said again. “We can—we can get coffee.”

“Okay,” said Rick.

*

They went to a Starbucks. Daryl had been to one before because everyone had, but he didn’t know what to get. Coffee late in the day made him jumpy and he didn’t really know what the difference was between their six kinds of lemonades or whatever. He didn’t want to look stupid. And anyway Rick was the one who picked “going out for coffee” so let him buy something.

Rick had some foamy drink and was dressed off-duty, like he’d said. Daryl had thought maybe there was something wrong with himself, like maybe it was the cop outfit that did it for him like he wanted to be punished, like in those ridiculous shitty pornos. But Rick in plain clothes was ten times worse because these things actually fit—jeans that hugged his hips and a shirt that made the lines of him even sharper. The worst of it was he didn’t even seem to know how good he looked.

Daryl was wearing a shirt that had been in a wad on his floor, one of the ones with the sleeves torn off. He’d grabbed it because he felt so stupid being choosy, not like it mattered at all. 

Felt like it mattered now. Should’ve worn long sleeves at least. His arms weren’t much to look at.

“Don’t you want anything?” Rick said.

“Nah,” Daryl said.

“You sure?” said Rick. “I’ll buy.”

“Too late for coffee.”

“You don’t have to get coffee,” said Rick. “There’s hot chocolate.”

Daryl looked up at him quickly to see if Rick were making fun of him. “That what you got me here for, hot chocolate?”

Soon as it was out of his mouth, he regretted it. He’d meant to razz but not to flirt, but now he said it he it could be taken that way. The thought that _Rick_ could take it that way was mortifying—Rick so spotless and respectable, even without the uniform. Even his face was spotless and respectable. Daryl didn’t want Rick to know about him, not ever, didn’t want Rick to think he was nasty.

“No,” said Rick. “I came to talk about Carol Peletier.” Rick took a sip of his foamy thing, like he was waiting for something, but when Daryl didn’t say anything he put it down and said, “So, you been in touch? She use the number I gave her?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d she say, the first time she called?”

“Asked me to pick her up.”

“She did?” Rick’s brows went up in surprise. “That’s good. Means she knows she needs to get away.”

Rick seemed to be waiting again, so Daryl shrugged.

“Where’d you take her?”

“My place.”

“Yours?” he said, apparently surprised. Maybe he didn’t think Daryl was the type to have somewhere someone like Carol could go. 

Daryl scowled at Rick’s cup and bit the side of his thumb. God, did he need a cigarette.

He was trying to stop, ever since he brought Carol and Sophia to the trailer. He’d tried before but it’d never really stuck, but he had the gum now and even the patches. The patches were okay but the gum really helped with wanting to do something with his hands or mouth or something, but the problem was if he got some out now then Rick would know he was a smoker and Rick already thought he was a vagrant.

“I got a place,” Daryl blurted.

“I didn’t think you didn’t,” Rick said. “I just thought—she barely knew you at that point. But I guess if she thought you were safe enough to call, she’d think you were safe enough to be with.” Rick had been looking at him before but now he looked with a new kind of intensity, brow furrowed, holding Daryl’s eyes. “It’s good you gave her a place to go.”

Daryl’s heart moved to his throat. “Ain’t nothing,” he croaked.

Mercifully, Rick let it drop. Took another sip of his foam thing, then said, “How long she stay?”

“Two days.”

“Yeah. That’s about right.” Rick looked disappointed, which was easier to handle, but it was nice how he wasn’t looking at Daryl when he said it. Frowned into the distance, brow furrowed in a new way. Took another sip of foam stuff. 

“She lit out when I wasn’t looking,” Daryl said, feeling encouraged. “I should’ve stayed at home.”

Daryl thought he might get praise for this— _yes, you’re right, you should have_ —but instead Rick’s eyes snapped to him and he said in such a kindly, firm sort of way, “It’s not your fault,” that Daryl felt hot all over.

 _Yes, it was_ , Daryl wanted to say, but years of holding back with Pop and Merle had taught him not to argue, and he didn’t know what to do.

“She have any friends you know of?” Rick asked. “Other people she might turn to?”

“Dunno.”

“She hasn’t talked about other friends?”

Daryl shook his head. Bit his lower lip.

“What?” said Rick.

Dammit. Daryl hadn’t meant to look like he wanted to say something. “Just,” he said, then started over. “It makes sense, right? She don’t want people to see. She stays away from them. I seen it; she’s careful, always covering up.”

“She doesn’t want other people to interfere,” said Rick. “Get them hurt, get herself hurt more.”

“That’s part of it,” said Daryl. “Rest of it’s shame.”

“She’s got nothing to be ashamed of,” said Rick.

“Ain’t how she sees it. Way she sees it, it’s all her fault she let this happen. Thinks she could stop it if she were strong enough, or maybe if she were a better wife, or a wiser person—any of those things; she just . . .” ” Daryl bit his lip again. 

“Yeah, I get it,” said Rick. “Thinks she doesn’t deserve friends.”

Daryl nodded.

Rick stared at him a moment, long enough for Daryl to realize maybe he’d said more than he should’ve about how it felt to be in Carol’s position. Daryl hadn’t thought nothing of it but Rick was a sly motherfucker and maybe—

“When did she call you after that?” Rick asked.

Daryl scowled at him, but Rick went on sipping his foam thing as though this were just a normal conversation.

Daryl told him about the other times Carol had called him up—wary at first, but Rick just acted so straightforward about it, didn’t try to dig or gentle-question the way cops and counselors and caseworkers had in Daryl’s youth. 

As Daryl went on he talked a little more, telling Rick about Carol. That made him feel guilty, like he was betraying her, but at this point he kinda felt like he’d gotten in deep with her, and he didn’t wanna get out without her. He had to pull her up but he didn’t know how; he’d done all the things he could think of—getting the place nice for her so she could have a place to go, dropping everything when she called. Stopping smoking so Sophia wouldn’t have to breathe that shit if he was there for them.

It weren’t Carol’s fault she couldn’t leave. Wasn’t that she was too scared or meek or those kinds of things. She was smart was what she was, knowing that a fuckup like Ed could come after her if she ran, get her kid if she weren’t careful. She had to have plans in place, resources, not just a safe place like the trailer to go, but ways to support herself after. No wonder Ma had put up with all that bullshit.

Then again, Ma was always too drunk to care.

“This information helpful?” Daryl finally asked, when he was done explaining the last time Carol had called.

“I’ll tell you the truth, Daryl: I don’t know.” Rick was looking off in the distance again, sounding tired. Then he locked eyes on Daryl. “I’ll tell you what I do know—you’re doing all the right things.”

Daryl shrugged. “I ain’t done nothing.”

Rick held his eyes for so long that Daryl began getting uncomfortable again.

Rick’s foam thing was mostly coffee now that it was more than half gone, milky brown instead of white and creamy.

“You asked whether this was a normal case for me.” Rick’s voice was low. “In some ways it is. See a lot of domestic violence, my line of work. But this is different. I mean it’s different for me.”

Daryl looked up, and Rick was still looking at him.

“I have a son,” Rick said, what sounded like a change of subject. “He’s Sophia’s age. Difficult age. And for me—I felt things were falling apart. I’d asked for a sign. Any kind of sign. I’m not normally the type of man to ask God for things, but I asked for that.”

Daryl wished he were the sort of person who knew what to say to comfort someone, because Rick looked so dragged down in that moment, like someone with a weight on his shoulders.

“Then we got the call, and I thought that was it,” Rick said. “Thought that was the sign. Missing child. I felt so sure that if I found her, I could put it back together. I could fix everything, put it back together.”

“We did find her,” was all Daryl could think of to say.

“Yeah.”

Daryl didn’t know what Rick’s problem was, thought the fact that Rick was a father didn’t surprise him. Daryl hadn’t missed the wedding ring on Rick’s finger, and anyway, it seemed fitting. Seemed exactly what Rick should be, because Rick was like a cop on TV. Fucking Andy Griffith—determined, invested, kind. Just look at him, worried over his family. Who wouldn’t kill, to have a father like that. 

But Rick didn’t elaborate further, and at first Daryl worried that maybe his interjection had stopped Rick’s talking, and that was a shame because it had felt like Rick was confiding something. Rick wouldn’t’ve said all that to Carol. Maybe he wouldn’t’ve even talked that way to his wife. Maybe he wouldn’t want to worry her with stories of missing children.

But as the silence stretched out and Rick didn’t say anything, Daryl relaxed. Rick wasn’t really looking at him, staring off into the distance, drinking up the rest of his coffee as though he was lost in thought. This was sort of nice too, just sitting here. It felt like a confidence as well, in a way. Like Rick needed a break, maybe, and was taking it with Daryl.

Daryl found he didn’t want a cigarette anymore.

Then Rick finished up his coffee and seemed to notice Daryl was there again. “Thanks for meeting with me,” he said.

Daryl shrugged. “It weren’t nothing.”

Rick gave him this look—brow furrowed, a little frown—but he didn’t pick at it. Instead he said, “You’re keeping watch on her. You tell me if anything gets worse.”

“Mm.”

“I’m gonna check in with you, not her. Ed gets the scent of cops sniffing around, it could get worse—I’ve seen that happen, too. You’ll keep me updated?”

“Yeah.” Daryl licked his lips. His heart was beating harder.

“Okay,” Rick said, standing up.

Daryl stood up too.

“We should do this again, check in,” said Rick. “That alright by you?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said again. He swallowed. “It’s good.”

“Thank you,” Rick said. He held his eyes. “It’s not nothing.”

Then he walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next six weeks Daryl kept in touch with Carol and Rick kept in touch with Daryl, and Daryl tried to keep the trailer nice. Didn’t get high any more neither (except with Jake) and kept his gig at the garage. Still tried to quit smoking but that was only really half-working, but Daryl had a real job now, looking out for Carol and Sophia. He’d never had a job like that, people who depended on him—not just Carol and the kid but a cop too. Like he was responsible or something, someone who could make a difference. Never had that many people to be accountable to in a way that mattered before. He didn’t wanna fuck it up.

On one of the calls Rick ended with, “How are you doing?” It wasn’t casual. It was concerned, “how are _you_ doing?” as though Daryl had some kinda problem.

“What?” said Daryl, because he didn’t know what Rick meant by it.

“You’re doing a lot,” Rick said. “Checking in on Carol and Sophia. How’re you holding up?”

“Fine,” said Daryl, still mystified. “I give you any reason to doubt?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Daryl waited, but Rick didn’t go on. “Well, what did you mean?”

“I just meant it’s hard. It can be hard to be there for someone, going through something like that. You just want to . . .”

Rick trailed off, and Daryl’s hand tightened on the phone. Could be Rick knew about him. Could be he _guessed_ —Merle could’ve told—

But no. Merle wouldn’t talk about something like that; they never talked about it, and there was no way Rick could guess about Daryl’s childhood, something so long in the past. More likely Rick was talking about his own experience, something that had happened to him—and Daryl’s hand tightened on the phone again. If that had happened to _Rick—_

“I seen a lot of domestic abuse cases,” Rick said finally, “and it’s never easy. You want to help and sometimes, you just can’t. I just meant it takes a toll, and I don’t want that toll taken out on you.”

Daryl felt his skin go hot. “M’fine,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” Rick said, in that way he had where he wasn’t gonna push it but didn’t actually agree. “Listen. You just take care of yourself, you hear?”

Daryl didn’t know what to say to that. He licked his lips. Probably Rick didn’t need an answer.

“Daryl,” said Rick. “You hear me?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said roughly, licking his lips again. His mouth felt so dry. “I heard you.”

“Good,” said Rick. “Don’t forget.”

“Won’t,” Daryl said.

“Good,” Rick said again.

Jesus Christ.

Daryl stood up, phone still in hand. He needed somewhere to be, something to do, started pacing because he didn’t know what else; he was still on the phone with Rick and didn’t wanna hang up in case he said another thing like that.

“I’ll call again in about a week,” said Rick, then hung up.

Daryl stood there a moment. Took the phone from his ear, pressed the button on it. Then he was flinging the phone on the counter; it slid across the formica while he grabbed the crossbow off the wall, making it clatter. He got out of there, went straight to the bike, started it up. 

_Take care of yourself,_ Rick had said.

_You hear what I said?_ Rick had said. _Take care of yourself. Do what I say._

_Good. You’re doing good._

Jesus Christ.

The motorcycle ate up the pavement, and Daryl didn’t know where he was going. Just knew he needed to feel that roar under him, the open sky above, because he was fucked.

He was so fucked.

*

Next time Jake showed up he had a six-pack of beer in hand and weed in his jacket no doubt. Daryl opened the door for him and Jake said, “Hey, honey.” Leaned in to brush lips over his cheek and Daryl leaned away. The door was still open, but Jake just laughed. Came the rest of the way through, set down the beer while Daryl closed the door. “Ain’t you just precious,” said Jake.

Usually Daryl liked the endearments, but just now they rubbed the wrong way. Daryl knew he should be grateful that even though he hadn’t done nothing, Jake cared enough to say those things. But maybe if Jake stuck around a little more, gave him a chance to prove it, Daryl could earn names like that.

Christ, that was stupid, and Daryl tried to shrug it off by picking up the beer, taking it to the fridge.

Jake was looking around when Daryl came back around the counter from the kitchen. “Place looks real nice,” Jake said. 

Daryl looked away, hot under his skin. Well, he’d _wanted_ to earn it.

“I’m serious. You done a real good job. What’s it for?”

Daryl looked back at him.

“Anyone even come over here but me?” Jake asked. “Don’t get me wrong, not like I wanna come over to a trash heap, but I was getting sorta used to it.”

Daryl snorted. He was gonna need one of those beers already. Went into the kitchen, got himself one, grabbed one for Jake.

“Really,” said Jake, when Daryl handed him one of the beers. “You do it for me?”

“Pfft.” Daryl turned away, drank his beer.

“C’mon. You get it all cleaned up for me? Because that’s real sweet.” Daryl heard the bottle set down on the counter. “Or maybe it was someone else, huh?”

Daryl’s mind flashed to lean hips, steel eyes, then Jake was coming up behind him, slipping hands against Daryl’s waist. 

Jake was slender, which helped some—not as intimidating—but he was still all man, which Daryl couldn’t help that he liked. He was around Daryl’s height and his arms were strong, sliding against Daryl’s torso, Jake’s mouth leaning into Daryl’s ear from behind. “That it, baby?” Jake whispered. “You got your eye on someone else?”

“No.” Daryl put down his beer.

“You sure about that?” Jake adjusted against him and Daryl could feel his hips, grinding a bit against his ass. “Sure you’re not cleaning up for someone else? You wanna slut your ass around? Because darlin’, ain’t no one gonna want you like I want you.” 

Daryl shuddered. 

“You hear me?”

_You hear me?_

“Ain’t no one ever gonna give you what you need like I do.” Jake’s hand was moving over Daryl’s crotch now, cupping his cock over his jeans, hips pressing Daryl’s ass from the other side and Daryl was tense with how much he wanted it, and how much he also didn’t want to give in to it. “Ain’t no one ever gonna fuck you like I do,” Jake said, a little thrust of his hips, and Daryl heard himself make a sound.

Jake often got possessive like this. It was his thing—Daryl’s too, Daryl guessed. Something about being wanted so exclusively, someone wanting him enough to care if he was with other guys, not that Daryl would. Going to that bar and finding Jake had been awful enough; Daryl never wanted to go to a bar like that again if he could help it.

But Jake was always saying things, bringing it up— _you ever fuck around? You ever think about that? You’re slut enough to just want cock all the time, bet you think about it all the time—other men. More cock. Shit, what about a whole line of men, waiting to use your ass, fucking you, filling you up—wouldn’t you like that? I thought you would like that, a slut like you. Come on, don’t look like that, doll; you’d love to get filled up with thick cocks, wouldn’t you; that slutty ass loves a good dicking—Jesus Christ, precious. I was just joking around. Don’t need to get mad about it. Come on, baby. Don’t take me seriously. I bet you couldn’t even find that many guys who want a piece of you anyway—_

The worst part was, Daryl had been turned on, and he hadn’t even known if it was from Jake being possessive or Jake talking about all those other men. Daryl had been turned on by the thought of it, a line of men wanting him, needing him, the way that Jake had said they could use him. He wanted that, to be used, and hated how it felt— _just wanting to be useful_ —

“You know it’s true,” Jake said from behind him. His hand tightened on Daryl’s crotch. “You ever had a cock like mine, before me?”

“No,” Daryl said, his voice choked.

“You ever had anyone to fuck you like I do?”

Jake didn’t do anything more to get him to answer, so Daryl didn’t—remained held that way, tensed up and caught like a fly in a trap, Jake’s hips braced against his ass, Jake’s hand on his cock, Jake’s lips against his ear.

Jake rolled his hips again. “Answer me.”

Daryl shuddered, and Jake did it again. 

“Answer me,” he said again.

Now was not the time to be a smartass, with Jake in a mood like this—which made Daryl want to be a smartass. He didn’t know what Jake would do, and it thrilled him. “What was the question?” he asked.

Jake pushed him. Slammed him down against the table, and this was good—this was gonna be _so_ good. Ripped down his jeans, shoved a finger in, raw and dry, then held Daryl’s head down when Daryl tried to look back at him. “Anyone ever fuck you like me?” asked Jake. “Anyone ever fill your slut ass with cock the way you want, come all over you the way you want, use you up the way you want?”

Daryl waited, but nothing more came, and Jake’s hand had come away from Daryl’s head. Daryl twisted his neck to look back at him. “What makes you so sure I want it?”

“Fuck.” Jake slammed his head back down, and Daryl loved it when he could make Jake lose control. 

“No one else will do it to you,” Jake said. “No one else would want such a filthy slut.”

Jake leaned over him, and Daryl could hear the buckle of the belt. In spite of his childhood—maybe because of it; he didn’t know; he was so fucked up—the sound sent a shiver down his spine, and Jake was right. God, he was so right.

“You’re so nasty,” Jake said into his ear. “Such a nasty slut; no one else would want you. You hear me? No one else would want you, no one else would even want someone as fucked up as you.” Jake jammed his finger harder up Daryl’s ass and Daryl couldn’t help it; he squirmed against it, strained for more. He _was_ nasty. He was fucked up. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t help wanting this—

“Someone as fucked up as you are,” Jake continued, unzipping his jeans now. The cold tube of lube pressed into Daryl’s hand. “Get yourself ready,” Jakes whispered in his ear.

Daryl clutched the lube. He hated this part. He hated having to _admit_ he wanted it, admit it to the point where he was getting himself ready for it. He wished Jake would just forget about it, just fuck him raw and dry—make it hurt like he deserved—

“Come on,” Jake whispered in his ear. “You know I don’t like dry pussy. And you know I don’t like getting my fingers all dirtied up in that nasty fuck-hole. You can’t get it fucked unless you get it wet for me. Or do you want this slutty hole to just go hungry?”

He squeezed a handful of Daryl’s ass and it was too much; Daryl couldn’t stand it. He didn’t even know whether he really wanted to get fucked so badly or whether he was just trying to get Jake to shut up, but he got the lube on his fingers, reached back for his ass.

Jake moved away for the moment—went to fetch his beer, Daryl guessed. 

Once Daryl had two wet fingers slipping inside, Jake said, “God, that’s sick. Hungry little pussy, eating up those dirty fingers.” Jake set down the beer again. “You know that, right? You’re sick.” 

Jake pushed in, and it burned so good Daryl couldn’t see straight.

“You’re so fucked up, with your marked up back,” Jake said, pulling back and pushing in again. “Your messed up face. You ain’t smart; you ain’t even tough. You ain’t good looking—who wants you, hm? Who wants, you, baby?”

God, he was going slow with it, thrusting in and out, and Daryl just wanted it hard, hard and ruthless until he couldn’t see, couldn’t think; he needed it; he needed—

“I do,” Jake whispered in his ear, and slammed Daryl up against the table.

That was a good one. More like that—

“I want you, baby. Scars and all. Your trashy little trailer and your dumb hick voice, you don’t have to clean up for me, honey; I like you just the way you are. I like fucking you and I like coming on you; I love your little cunt of an asshole, your slutty little moans for me—gonna do it, Daryl? Gonna moan for me?”

Daryl bit his lip until he tasted blood.

“Gonna squirm for me, wiggle your slut ass for me? Come on, sweetheart; I know you love it. God, you’re such a _bitch_ for it; you’re like a dog in heat—”

Daryl made a sound then, and he didn’t know whether he was angry or turned on or what he was; he sort of wanted to throw Jake across the room for the things he was saying, but he wanted his cock more. He wanted to come more. He wanted Jake’s come more, and wasn’t that pathetic. God, it was so pathetic, and Daryl couldn’t stop.

He whined.

“Just like that,” said Jake. “Jesus, you really are just like a dog—” He gripped Daryl’s hair, pulled his head back, and came.

Daryl squirmed against the table.

“Hold still, man,” said Jake, still pulling back Daryl’s head with the grip on his hair, holding him still while he finished. His hips pumped, gradually slowing.

“Christ,” Jake said, when at last he was done, pulling out. “Goddamn. Where’s that beer?”

He moved away and Daryl pulled his pants up, thinking maybe he should break up with him. Jake was right, all those things he said, but Carol needed him. Sophia needed him—she’d hugged him right around the waist last time he’d left them, looked up at him with those big eyes, and he hadn’t felt like such a fuckup, then. He _hadn’t_ fucked up then, and not when he’d first found Sophia neither, not when he’d helped Carol. Not when Rick _depended_ on him to—

“What’s the matter with you?” Jake was back, sweaty beer in his hand.

“Nothing.” Daryl looked away, thinking maybe he should clean the mess on the table, but there wasn’t any mess—like it had never happened at all.

“Hey.” The beer set down again, and Jake came closer.

Daryl flinched.

“Aww, baby,” Jake said, taking his arm. “Don’t be like that. You know I don’t mean those things I said, right?” Jake drew him into his arms and Daryl hated it—he wasn’t anyone’s baby—but he let Jake hold him anyway, kiss the side of his head. “You know I just love putting it to that sweet ass—you know I get a little carried away.”

Daryl stood there. Never really knew whether he should forgive Jake when he said he was sorry, but never doubted for a minute Jake meant it. That was familiar, getting carried away—Daryl’d gotten carried away too. 

Merle got carried away too.

And Pop.

Ran in the family, Daryl guessed, and it seemed sorta fitting it ran in Jake. Jake was a nasty piece of work, and Daryl knew it. He knew it, because what Jake said was true: only someone as fucked up as he was would want this.

“You don’t gotta be that way, darlin’. You know I didn’t mean it; I’m just giving you what you need.”

Jake was talking in that baby voice, and Daryl didn’t like that either, and yet—the words were comforting. Like Jake cared about him in a way Daryl didn’t think anyone could ever care, and right on cue, Jake went, “Baby, I love giving you what you need. Love that hungry snatch you got, love filling it up with come.”

The words weren’t exactly sweet, but now Jake’s hand was stroking down Daryl’s back, squeezing his ass, then starting over again—a slow gentle caress the built in Daryl’s belly until there were knots in it.

“You gonna be good for me?” Jake crooned in that sing-song voice. “Forgive me, you know I didn’t mean it. You gonna stop acting like a pussy, suck it up? You know I’ll give you something, even though you take forever. I’ll give you a little something if you’re good. You wanna be good?”

And this was the part Daryl liked best, when Jake moved in front of him and got his hand on Daryl’s cock, but it wasn’t just that, it was the kind of things he said.

“Oh, yeah.” He opened Daryl’s pants again. “That’s what you want,” Jake whispered. “You wanna be good for me. Not gonna take forever this time, are you? You wanna be a good little princess, don’t you, get it over with quickly. You wanna reward, sweet little precious. That what you want?”

Daryl’s breath caught, and Jake’s hand closed over his cock.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” said Jake. “You’re gonna do so good, come so fast.”

Against his own will, Daryl could feel himself relax a bit, his eyes flutter closed. Jake’s hand was stroking his cock now and all Daryl needed was a little more—just a little more of that _talking—_

“Yeah, you’re doing good,” said Jake. “So good for me, gonna come real fast like a good little slut. You love this, don’t you, such an easy slut for it—so good. Sweetheart.” Jake’s hand stopped, tightening at the base.

Daryl’s eyes flew open. 

“There isn’t anyone else, is there?”

Daryl frowned, and Jake’s hand squeezed.

“You ain’t cleaning up for no one else?”

Daryl stared at him and Jake stared back, still holding Daryl’s dick. When Daryl tried to move, Jake held him fast, and Jake was serious. This wasn’t more of his dumb talking—he was actually serious.

“No,” said Daryl.

“No what?” Jake’s hand tightened again.

“Man,” Daryl began to protest, but Jake’s hand _twisted_ and fuck—

“You fucking anyone but me?”

“ _No,_ ” Daryl growled, half as much from the hand on his cock as from the stupid question.

“Good,” said Jake. “I don’t wanna fuck a used-up cunt. And you know I’m the only one who’ll give it to you, right?”

“Man, if you’re the only one’ll give it to me, how could I be—”

Jake twisted some more.

“Ow, fuck,” said Daryl. “That hurts—”

“I can hurt you more,” said Jake.

Daryl considered that a moment. Actually considered it, because he didn’t know what he wanted. Jake had fucked him harder, on occasion. Used him harder, on occasion, hurt him on occasion—and Daryl had let him because he knew he deserved it and what was more, he’d _wanted_ it.

But he didn’t want it now. He just wanted Jake to be nice, and say nice things, and Christ, he was so fucked up—“I ain’t fucking anyone else,” he said finally.

“Good,” said Jake, and even in spite of all the twisting Daryl’s traitorous dick twitched in his hand. Jake looked down at it. “And my other question—you know I’m the only one who’ll do this for you.”

“Man—”

But Jake let go, then, started stroking, and Daryl couldn’t help it—after the misuse his dick was hungry, so hungry—his hips twitched up, seeking that gentle hand.

“I’m the only one who’ll touch you,” Jake said again. “You take too long to come, too much trouble, no one wants to take the time. I’m the only one who will make you feel this good, give you what you need—”

Daryl made a sound, hips twitching again. When Jake got his other hand on his balls, when he did that thing with his—God—it was so _good_ —

Jake’s other hand responded on cue, slid down into Daryl’s pants along with his other one. “You’re doing so good,” said Jake, and Daryl whimpered. “Doing so good, I’m the only one who can do it, the only one who can stand to touch you like this, who would bother, you just take so damn long; any other guy would get bored of all your squirming. Say it—” Jake’s hand tightened again. “Say it—I’m the only one who can—”

“Yeah,” said Daryl. “Yeah,” because he couldn’t help it—

“Say it,” said Jake.

“Fuck—”

“Say it.”

“You’re—the—”

“I’m the only one.” Jake squeezed his balls, not allowing him to come, but his hand on Daryl’s dick was so good. It was so good. “Say it.”

“Fuck you,” said Daryl.

“Come on and be good,” said Jake. “Be a good boy.”

“Christ—”

“Come on and do it,” said Jake. “Do it for me; be a good boy.”

“You’re the only one,” Daryl panted.

“Good boy,” said Jake, and Daryl came.

Jesus. He came and came, couldn’t come down from that, Jesus; he was on such a high.

Jake was right. No one else would ever do this for him, say those things, touch him like that, and Daryl felt guilty that he couldn’t give this up. Not even for Carol. Not even for Rick—God, Rick. But Daryl just wasn’t strong enough; it felt too good.

_Take care of yourself_ , Rick had said.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, Carol came by with Sophia. 

Daryl freaked the fuck out, because there was still come in his ass and his bed was messed up; after their beers he and Jake had gotten high and fucked in his bedroom. Jake had slapped his face with his cock and Daryl hadn’t minded, because Jake hadn’t brought weed, he’d brought crystal. Daryl hadn’t wanted it, but Jake had prodded and coaxed and pleaded, and Daryl had only had a _little_ but it still strung him out the whole next day, and Jake had just kept fucking him until he’d had to leave again. It was only just last night Daryl had come down, and now he felt like shit. Coffee had done nothing for it, and he’d only just begun to think about taking a shower.

And here was Carol and her eye was—her eye was completely fucking busted—

“Come in here,” Daryl said, but the place was trashed. It was so fucking trashed—shit. Carol had depended on him. Rick had depended on him. Sophia was depending on him, and he was a faggot druggie slut who couldn’t just _keep it in his pants_ the second someone touched him and called him a nice name.

“Over here,” Daryl said, moving the laundry on the dilapidated couch. He didn’t even know how that got there.

“I don’t wanna be any trouble,” said Carol.

“No trouble,” Daryl growled. 

Sophia cowered behind Carol, and Daryl realized how he sounded. “Hey, Sophia, hey,” he said, then stopped trying to move around Carol, which had only made Sophia cower more. He should’ve known better—big man going after a kid when her mom looked like that; naturally she’d be afraid. Only hadn’t thought of it because he was so stressed out. “I got her some books,” Daryl told Carol. “Saw them at the store. They’re used, but they’re about horses—”

Sophia peeked out from behind Carol.

“Maybe she can read them while I get you fixed up,” Daryl said.

“Sophia?” Carol smiled down at Sophia in that way she had reserved for her daughter. “You wanna read?”

Sophia nodded, and Daryl realized he needed to remember where the fuck he’d put that Goodwill bag. Jesus, with Jake having been here everything was just tossed around. He picked up laundry as he went looking for the bag—trash, food packaging, jar of peanut butter, half a sandwich—

“You don’t need to pick up on account of us,” Carol said, still standing in the middle of his floor.

“Just looking for those books,” Daryl said, trying to keep his voice soft for Sophia. “Hold on.”

The trailer had two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom, then the kitchen with the counter that separated it from the main room. All told it wasn’t more than seven hundred square feet. Books had to be somewhere.

He found the bag half shoved under the bed, which was filthy. Thank Christ Carol had refused to let Sophia sleep there last time; he couldn’t stand the thought of either of them even coming in here when it looked like this— _smelled_ like this—booze and drugs and sex. Dammit.

The bag had a long-sleeve thermal in it, which he’d bought just in case he had to meet Rick again, some pretty dinner plates so if Carol came they wouldn’t have to use paper, and the Saddleclub books. He hadn’t known what they were about, but they had horses and the covers advertised “pre-teen”. He grabbed them and headed back to the living room.

“Here,” he said, giving the books to Carol. “Lemme get you some ice.”

“I don’t need anything,” said Carol, giving Sophia the books. “I didn’t mean to surprise you; we were just in the area—”

That was bullshit, but Daryl let her lie. “Glad you came,” he said gruffly, because he was glad, in spite of being ashamed of himself. “Be right back.”

Luckily the kitchen wasn’t a disaster the way it always used to be. Weren’t like he and Jake had cooked, mostly just picked things up and ate things pre-packaged, so there was trash everywhere but not a lot of dirty dishes. Daryl threw away the trash, piled what dishes there were in the sink, wiped down the counter just to make sure there wasn’t drugs or come all over it, then washed his hands to make sure they were clean. Got the ice out of the freezer, dumped it out of the tray and put it in a baggie, then got a towel a little damp and wrapped it all up. He’d done this for himself enough times to know what felt good, and got a couple other damp clothes. She probably had other spots beside her face, but an eye was the worst.

Goddammit.

When Daryl came back around the counter to the living room, Sophia was reading on the couch and Carol was folding his laundry.

Shit, there was probably come on his clothes.

“Don’t,” he said, pulling the shirt out of her hands.

“I just wanted to—”

“I know,” said Daryl. “You don’t gotta. Sit down.”

“Do I ‘gotta’ do that too?” Carol put her hands on her hips.

Sophia looked up from her book.

Carol’s eyes were trying to tease, but that wasn’t what she was doing, and Daryl’s heart ached. “No,” he said. “No, Carol. You don’t have to do anything.”

Her hands slid off her hips.

The ice was melting in his hand. “Please,” Daryl said. “Lemme help.”

Carol glanced at Sophia. “Maybe I’ll make us some lunch,” she said, and went on into the kitchen.

Daryl glanced at Sophia too, but she was hiding behind her book, so Daryl followed Carol. In the kitchen, she was leaning up against the sink, her face in her hands. “I didn’t want you to see me,” she said, when he got close enough to hear her low voice, choking back tears.

“Here,” Daryl said, and held out the bag of ice with the towel.

Carol took her hands away, let him hold it up to her eye.

“I wanna see you,” he said roughly. 

Her hand came up over his, and she looked up at him—her bright pretty eyes, trusting him.

“Stay with me,” he blurted.

Her mouth opened in surprise, her hand slipping away. 

He reached out to grab her other hand. “I can make this a good place for you.”

Carol looked even more surprised. “It is good.”

“Then stay,” said Daryl. “Don’t go back to him.”

Carol took a step back, hands slipping out of his. She turned away. “He has a gun,” she said finally, looking back at him. “Had one for years, but this time he . . .”

Daryl waited.

“It’s not even myself I’m worried about,” said Carol. “It’s Sophia. Without me there . . . the way he looks at her . . .”

“You should talk to the police,” Daryl heard himself say.

Carol shook her head. “It’ll only make him angrier.”

“You can stay here.”

Carol’s mouth flattened out, like she was trying not to cry. Her eyes filled up anyway. “What if they take her away?”

“They won’t. I . . .” Daryl debated with himself, then told her anyway. “I got a friend. A cop friend. He wouldn’t let that happen.”

Carol looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Here.” Daryl came close again, brought the ice bag and towel back up to her face. 

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to know,” said Daryl. “Lemme help.”

Her hand came to cover his again, over the towel. “I’ll . . . try,” Carol said. 

*

He had to go to the garage the next day—bender with Jake had been on his weekend, then he’d called out the day after that, but he couldn’t miss too much work. He was worried about Carol leaving again while he was out, so while he was on his break he went through his phone and scrolled through the eight contacts on there. Four of them were Merle’s friends, then Daryl found the one he wanted.

After a minute or two of staring at it, he pressed the button.

“This is Rick Grimes,” said Rick. “Daryl?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on?”

Daryl hesitated. “I only got a ten minute break.”

“That’s okay,” said Rick. “Did you wanna talk?”

“Carol’s at my place,” Daryl heard himself say. In for a penny, in for a pound. “She brought Sophia.”

“That’s good,” said Rick.

“She said Ed has a gun.”

“He got a license?”

Daryl bit his lip. He hadn’t thought to ask. “Dunno,” he said finally.

“That’s okay,” said Rick. “He pull it on her?

Daryl hesitated again. “Think so.”

“She could press charges for that,” said Rick. “Do you think she will?”

Daryl thought about it, the way she had been last night. How scared she been, and brave, all mixed up. “She’s worried about Sophia.”

“You mean afraid they’ll take her away?”

Daryl nodded, not wanting to say anything. He’d been in the system for a year and a half. He knew why Carol was so worried. Maybe Rick didn’t.

“I get that she’s scared,” Rick said, “and I can’t promise that they _wouldn’t_ take Sophia for a little while, with the situation as dangerous as it is, but it’s gonna be worse if she does nothing.”

Daryl bristled. “She’s not doing nothing. She does everything.”

A pause, then: “You’re right. I shouldn’t’ve said it that way.” 

Daryl looked around the yard out back of the garage. The guys were all working, couldn’t see him huddled in the corner with Rick’s voice in his ear, low and warm.

“She’s brave, coming to you,” Rick said. “It’s a good first step.”

 _What’s the next step_ , Daryl wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say _tell me what to do_ without sounding pathetic.

“See if you can get her to stay,” Rick went on, without Daryl having to ask. “Don’t push—just show her she’s got a place. That’s all you can do. And you’re right—that’s a lot. A lot that she did it, and a lot you’re doing for her. You’ve gotta keep doing it, Daryl. You’re her best bet right now.”

Warmth pooled in Daryl’s belly, his skin tingling.

Oh God, not this again. 

“I gotta get back to work,” he croaked.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “You did a good job, calling me.”

Daryl sort of wanted to die. “Bye, Rick.”

“Take care of yourself,” Rick said, before he hung up. _Take care of yourself,_ like a goodbye, but also like a command, like something he had to obey.

Christ.

*

Daryl thought maybe the next two weeks were two of the best weeks of his life up to that point. 

That first day when he came back from work and the grocery store, Carol was there, rubber gloves on again, washing dishes.

He eyed the gloves. “You sure do like those,” he said.

“Your room smelled disgusting,” she said, smirking and sticking the gloves deep in dirty dishwater.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be going through my shit,” he said mildly, not feeling quite as bad about the state of his room, since she looked all right and was teasing him. Anyway she was still here. He went over to the fridge to unpack groceries he’d picked up on the way home.

“How many girls you have over this weekend?” Carol asked.

“Two or three.” Daryl had gotten more good things for Carol and Sophia—fruit and real cheese in a block, not slices, and yogurt—girls liked yogurt, right?—and milk. Milk was good for kids. He’d got chocolate syrup for Sophia; maybe he could sneak it to her.

“You don’t remember how many girls you had over?” Carol said, still washing dishes.

“Gets blurry,” Daryl said.

Carol snorted. “I bet.”

“I wouldn’t do that with you here,” Daryl said, closing the fridge and turning around to see her. “Have anybody over, I mean.”

Carol didn’t look at him, but her voice dropped that teasing tone. “I don’t want to interfere with your life.”

“You ain’t interfering.” Daryl wanted to touch her, but he didn’t know where—she was so tough and fragile all at the same time. He shoved his hands into his back pockets.

“I’ve just . . .” Carol plunged her hands into the water. “I always think I can fend for myself, you know? But I can’t; I just mess up other people’s lives like I’ve messed up my own.”

“Shh,” Daryl said, making the sound because he didn’t know what else to do. He came up beside her, touched her shoulder tentatively, used his other hand to turn her head. She had tears on her face. “You didn’t mess up nothing.”

“I’ve messed up Sophia.”

“Sophia is great.”

“Great?” Carol made a choked laugh. “With a daddy who—” She made that choked sound again, bringing her hand up to her face, seeming to forget it was encased in a rubber glove dripping with dishwater. 

“C’mere,” Daryl said, pulling her against him.

“And I messed up your life too, getting you involved.”

Daryl pulled back to look at her. “Carol—”

“I know you feel sorry for me.” She wiped her nose with the wet glove. “And I don’t blame you; I would too. Hell, _I’m_ sorry for me, but I did it to myself—”

“I don’t feel sorry for you.”

Carol looked at him, her face pulled in, like she was swallowing back the tears. “You’re sweet,” she said.

“I ain’t sweet,” Daryl said. “Shit. If my mom had been half the lady you are . . .” 

Goddammit.

Carol smiled at him, teasing through that watery look. “Why, Daryl. I didn’t know you thought of me as a mother figure.”

“I don’t.” Christ. He hadn’t meant to say that anyway, about his ma. He didn’t want Carol to think that he—or know that he—anyway he never talked about Pop. Not ever. No one ever needed to know, least of all Carol.

“You sure?” Carol kept teasing. “Maybe you need a little mothering.”

Defense mechanism. That was what that was; Daryl had heard about it. She didn’t want to talk about how she’d said her life was messed up, didn’t want Daryl’s comfort because she thought she didn’t deserve it.

He knew how that worked.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Daryl said.

“Aw, now you’re just charming.” She put her hands back in the sink, going back to washing the dishes.

“Serious,” Daryl said. Touched the top of the water, flicked soap bubbles at her.

“Uh-huh. And why’s an old gray lady like me the best thing that happened to Daryl Dixon? What about those three or four ladies you had over the other night?”

“You ain’t old and gray.”

“Flatterer.”

“And it was two or three, not four.”

“Uh-huh.” Carol flicked bubbles back at him, then handed him a towel. “Here. Make yourself useful.”

He dried the dishes she handed him, putting them on the towel she’d laid out for them to dry. He should get one of those rack things. “It was when we first met,” he said, taking the bowl she handed him. “In the woods.”

She eyed him, but kept washing. “In the interest of being honest, I was pretty sure you were a serial killer.”

Daryl laid down the bowl and took the plate she handed him. “You asked for my help.”

“Maybe I was desperate.”

Daryl took another plate. “You trusted me anyway.”

“Well, you earned it, by the time we were through.”

Daryl shrugged, uncomfortable. He hadn’t meant to beg for praise. “Didn’t do anything Deputy Grimes or Walsh wouldn’t’ve done.”

“I know.” Carol put down the dish in her hand, turning to look at him. “You’re every bit as good as them. Every bit.” Then she leaned up and kissed his cheek—chaste and sweet, like a schoolgirl or a nun. Or a mom.

It felt so nice he sorta couldn’t stand it, so he flicked soap bubbles at her again.

She plunged her hand into the water and splashed him for real. Got a big plop of water on his shirt, soaked all the way through to the skin. He stared at her stunned while she laughed.

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice a whole lot more contentious than he meant it to be. She only laughed louder. He grabbed the sink sprayer.

“Oh, you wouldn’t,” she said, so he did.

She squawked, got her hands in the water again, picked up the mixing bowl inside full of soapy water—he hadn’t even _used_ a mixing bowl; why was she washing it—and dumped it over his head.

He stopped spraying her, shocked again.

“You look like a drowned rat,” she observed.

“Man, you play rough,” he observed back.

“Yeah. I learned that.” Carol turned back to the sink.

Daryl watched her for a moment as he dripped all over his linoleum floor. She looked serious, like maybe she’d gone too far, and a little sad again, as she so often did. “Well, I learned it too,” he said, and sprayed her again.

*

When the phone rang and Daryl saw that it was Rick he called out to Carol and Sophia, “Gonna take a phone call!” because they were doing a puzzle at the crappy little dinette table, and there were people living with him who cared what he was doing. “Yeah,” he said, answering the phone so Rick wouldn’t hang up, “hang on.” 

He clattered down the cinderblock steps to the yard, which was still mowed and had the little flowers he’d planted along the front. Maybe he could even get one of them porch swing things. He didn’t have a porch but they had free-standing ones, and he didn’t know, but maybe Sophia would like it. Kids liked swings, right? When he brought the phone back up to his face he was almost smiling, thinking about it. “Yeah, I’m here, Rick.”

“Was I interrupting something?” said Rick.

“No.”

“Are Carol and Sophia still there?” said Rick, sounding surprised.

“Yeah. Carol made dinner and Sophia got an A on her test and they’re playing a puzzle in the kitchen.” He stopped, realizing he was rambling.

“They been there a while.”

Daryl looked back at the trailer. A square of yellow light spilled out from the kitchen window into the yard, where the shadows were lengthening in the dying light.

“You think she might be ready to leave him?” Rick asked.

Daryl hesitated. “Dunno.”

“That’s okay,” Rick said. “You talk about it at all?”

Daryl bit the side of his thumb, worrying at the cuticle. “Not really.”

“That’s okay,” Rick said again, quickly. “That’s fine. She needs time. Does she have anything of his over there? Did she drive when she came over?”

“Yeah.” Daryl bit his thumb again.

“It her car or his?”

“Dunno.” Daryl didn’t know why it mattered, but he felt like he should’ve asked; he was missing something.

“That’s okay,” Rick said again.

He said that a whole lot. Like the way you would with a kid or a scared horse—low and steady in that soft drawl Rick had. Daryl guessed it was a cop thing. It was nice, when Rick said it, but Daryl kinda resented how nice it was. He wasn’t a criminal. He didn’t need to be soothed into compliance. He wasn’t a kid or wild animal neither.

“If it’s hers, he has less to stand on legally,” Rick explained. “It depends on how their possessions and bank accounts are arranged as well, but sometimes in cases like these, you got a husband who claims the wife stole from him and some idiot prosecutor who thinks that’ll hold up in court. She should have the things she needs, just wanna avoid extra trouble like that if she possibly can.”

“I got a truck,” Daryl said.

“Besides your bike?”

“Bike’s Merle’s.”

“Well, you be careful taking her car back if that’s what you do. Longer she stays away, the better.” A pause. “I could help if you—”

“She don’t know I’m talking to you.”

“Yeah,” said Rick. Saying he understood, but didn’t like it so much.

Daryl wished that he could see him. They talked regularly on the phone, usually short conversations, but they’d only seen each other the once at the Starbucks, then the other time at Carol’s house. Before that it had just been when they’d found Sophia and before that, when Merle got arrested, when Daryl had been yelling in his face. Back then he hadn’t known Rick, the looks Rick could get—the way he stared into the distance when he said “yeah” like that, thinking things through. Somehow Daryl felt like he knew what each of those “yeahs” meant, even though Rick wasn’t much of a talker neither.

“I understand if she don’t want the police involved,” Rick said, “but it’d be better for her in the long run.”

Daryl gnawed on his thumb. “Maybe she thinks the police can’t do nothing.”

“I know. You gotta convince her we can.”

A hot surge went up him on Rick’s words, but it wasn’t right. “I ain’t gonna convince her. She’s her own person. She’s gotta do her own thing.”

“If she knew there was someone she could trust—”

“It’s not real trust if it’s me just telling her to do it.”

“Yeah.” A huff of air, this one resigned. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“‘Course I’m right.” 

Rick didn’t say anything to Daryl’s little joke, and Daryl bit his thumb again.

“She’ll come round,” Daryl finally said.

“I trust your judgment,” said Rick.

Another surge went through him, hotter than before. Shit. This thing with Rick was pretty bad. 

“I’m sure you can find a way to get the car back if that’s what she decides to do,” Rick went on. “This is just a delicate time. I’ve seen people—they get away, something happens, they spook. They go right back to their abuser.”

What did Rick know about it anyway? But it sounded like he did know, and up until he met Carol Daryl had mostly assumed no one knew. There were movies about it he guessed, fictional people on TV, but he’d never met anyone who knew. Not before her.

“I don’t mean to put this on you,” Rick said.

“I got it,” Daryl said quickly.

“I know,” said Rick. “I just mean, try as hard as you can, you don’t always succeed.”

Daryl wished he had a cigarette.

“I just don’t want you to think it’s on you if it goes to shit,” Rick said.

“It ain’t gonna go that way.”

“Okay.”

There it was again, that word— _okay_ , comforting, placating. Daryl was standing in the middle of the yard and the cicadas were starting up. Light was gray. Twilight. 

Rick always called after-hours. After dinner, probably. Daryl wondered if he ate with his wife and kid, house all lit up from the inside. He wondered whether Rick ever came outside to talk to him, so his family wouldn’t hear about how shitty life could be, Carol’s black eyes and her daughter in danger. So they wouldn’t hear him say things to Daryl like, _you can help_ and _I believe in you._

That was stupid. Wasn’t like Rick would hide saying that; those weren’t private things, or—or special things. Probably said that kinda thing to lots of people, but standing here in the yard Daryl kept thinking about it. The smell of grass. The way the stars were just starting to prick through the sky. Woman and child inside with full bellies and laughing eyes, gentle hands. Rick outside with a violet sky and Daryl in his ear.

Oh Jesus.

“There anything I can do to help?” Rick said. His voice was surprising after the long moment of silence, but it seemed to fit right in, whisky-warm and tender.

Daryl held the phone more tightly. “No.”

“And how are you, having them at your place?”

“M’fine.”

“Are you? You need anything? Wanna talk?”

Daryl shook his head, realized Rick wouldn’t see it, then chewed his thumb again. He’d bought that long sleeve shirt. They could go to that Starbucks again.

“Alright,” Rick said eventually, even though Daryl hadn’t actually managed to say anything. “You call me if you need anything.”

Daryl knew Rick wouldn’t see a nod, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Thanks for doing this,” said Rick. “You know, not everybody would.”

Must’ve been about the millionth time he’d said that. Daryl shrugged. “S’nothing.”

Sounded like Rick laugh—low, warm chuckle. “Yeah. Goodbye, Daryl.”

“I don’t know how to talk to her,” Daryl blurted.

“What?”

“Convince her to leave him,” Daryl went on. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not a—she should, right? I should convince her. But I talk to her, she just clams up. She knows what she should do. She ain’t stupid, she’s . . .”

“Scared.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Daryl thought about his father, how he’d worshipped him. 

Rick didn’t say anything, despite the fact that the silence went on long enough for shadows to lengthen closer to the night. The sound of cicadas filled up the yard. 

“It’s complicated,” Daryl said finally.

“Yeah, I know,” said Rick, in that way that made Daryl think maybe Rick really did know. “Look, Daryl. It's not your job to convince her. It’s your job to show her she’s got somewhere to go. That’s all I meant by asking you to talk to her about me, and if you think she's not ready then she's not ready.”

Daryl wanted to see his face. He really wanted to see Rick’s face. Instead he closed his eyes in the dark outside and listened to the insects.

“You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to,” said Rick. “And you’re doing a damn fine job.”

Daryl shuddered. He hadn’t asked for that. He hadn’t _meant_ to ask, but Rick had given it anyway. Goddammit this was bad.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” said Rick.

Daryl licked his lips. “I will.”

“Good. Have a good night, Daryl.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said. _I will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm letteredlettered on tumblr. Drop me a line and I'll follow you; I need more Walking Dead friends!


	5. Chapter 5

Carol and Sophia had been staying with Daryl about two weeks when Sophia said she wanted to order pizza.

“No,” Carol said. “I’m making dinner.”

She’d made dinner every night so far, said it made her feel like she earned her keep. Daryl guessed he understood, but he didn’t want her to feel like she had to. “We can order if you want,” he said.

“It’s not good for you,” Carol told Sophia.

“But Dad’s not here,” said Sophia.

Carol looked to Daryl as though for help, but he didn’t know what Sophia meant. This was the first time Sophia had mentioned Ed the whole time they’d been over here, so Daryl stayed quiet. “How about I make dumplings?” said Carol. “You love dumplings.”

“I want pizza. Daryl?” Sophia turned to Daryl, possibly having learned she had him wrapped around her little finger.

Daryl shrugged. “Gotta do what your mom says.”

“But Dad’s not here,” Sophia said again, only seeming concerned about that in relation to somehow getting pizza. “Why don’t we just get it delivered?”

“I said no,” said Carol. Pursing her lips, she turned and went into the kitchen.

“Your mom knows best,” Daryl said, then followed Carol, because of how unhappy she had looked. 

In the kitchen, Carol was counting the money in her purse. “I think I have enough,” she said, without looking over.

Daryl’s chest went tight. “I can get it,” he said.

“I don’t usually order when Ed’s around,” Carol said. “He likes a home-cooked meal. But some nights he’s out—Sophia and me, we . . . it’s our little treat. I’ve got just enough to get us delivery. It’ll be our treat again, a thank you.”

Daryl moved closer. “I’ll get it.”

Thunking her purse down, Carol whirled on him. “We can’t live on your hospitality,” she said.

“It ain’t hospitable.” Daryl came closer still, slowly, like you would with a pretty bird. “You’re the one cooking and cleaning.”

Carol pressed her mouth tight, the way she did when she didn’t want to cry. She looked out the little kitchen window for a long moment. “I’m gonna get a job,” she told the window.

Daryl’s heart skipped a beat. “You don’t gotta pay me.”

She turned back to him. “For how long?”

Daryl shrugged, and Carol shook her head, looking back out the window. “You shouldn’t have to carry me,” she said.

Daryl stayed quiet, because if she was talking about a job she was talking about long-term, which might mean . . . it just might mean she was thinking about leaving for good. And she didn’t need to get a job, because he would help her and provide for her as long as she needed, but it would be good for her. 

It’d be really good for her, because he knew she could stand on her own two feet—shit, she was already doing it—but _she_ needed to see it and she could be like him, with a job and being clean and safe and healthy and maybe she and Sophia would stay here and they could get pizza _all the time_ —

“I’m gonna leave him,” Carol said. When she met his eyes again her own were wet.

Daryl stood there frozen, afraid to move.

“I’ve said that before,” Carol said, “but this time . . . I’m gonna file for divorce.”

Daryl wanted to tell her she was good. He wanted to tell her she was so good and he trusted her and she could do it, those nice things that Rick always said that made him feel a million miles tall but he didn’t know how; his tongue was tied, too thick with hope in his mouth.

“I’m gonna do it,” said Carol, “so let me pay for the damn pizza.”

Daryl stared at her. “I like olives,” he said finally, and Carol started crying. “C’mere,” he said, pulling her into his arms, and she came willingly. He gathered her up and she _was_ like a bird, so slender and fragile but so strong, with the capacity to fly. He’d never felt this warm in his life, and he wanted to hold her forever.

Instead he kissed the top of her head, her soft hair, and she laughed a little. “Look at me, I’m crying over pizza,” she said, pulling away.

“We don’t gotta get olives,” he said, “if you really hate them that much.”

She laughed and he wanted to touch her again, or wanted her to touch him, but he didn’t really know how to do it. His main experience with touching was hitting and sex, but he didn’t want either, just that nice feeling—holding her in his arms with her holding back, soft and warm and kind.

“Are you making dumplings?” Sophia said, coming around the counter.

“No,” said Daryl.

“We’re getting pizza,” said Carol.

“What? Yes!” Sophia pumped her fist. “Can we get garlic sauce?”

Carol smiled. “If you give a mouse a cookie . . .”

*

When the pizza delivery came Carol got up to get it, maybe just making sure Daryl wouldn’t pay for it. Wasn’t like the house was big, though, so Daryl heard the surprised, “Mrs. Peletier?” a second after the door opened.

“Glenn!” said Sophia, shooting off the couch like a rocket.

“I didn’t think this would be on your route,” said Carol, sounding pleased.

“Hiya, Squirtl,” the pizza guy said to Sophia. “Well you know, I’m basically their only guy so they send me everywhere. I didn’t know you were . . . visiting a friend?”

“Daryl,” said Sophia.

Carol looked back into the house, where Daryl had stood but he didn’t know if he should interrupt. He was over by the couch so the pizza guy wouldn’t see him, but when Carol looked at him he moved within view of the door. “Daryl,” said Carol, “this is Glenn.”

“Hi,” said Glenn. He was cute, young, smile full of teeth. “Oh,” he said, looking back down at Sophia. “Guess you want this?”

She was reaching up for the pizza.

“Glenn always delivers for us,” Carol said, explaining to Daryl. “Not sure I ever had a pizza that wasn’t delivered by Glenn.”

Sophia, now in possession of the pizza, ran off into the kitchen.

“Not sure anyone’s ever had a pizza not delivered by me,” said Glenn. “Pretty sure I deliver everywhere in Atlanta.”

Carol laughed. “Here, at least let me pay you for it.” She started digging in her purse.

Glenn’s joking grin turned into a smile, thoughtful as his eyes swept over Carol. “You look good. I mean well. And not just because you’re paying me,” he added quickly. “I mean, you look . . .”

“Mature?” Fluttering her lashes, Carol smiled as she handed the money over.

“No,” said Glenn, still holding the money. “I mean healthy.”

Carol’s smile changed, but it was still genuine. “You’re sweet.”

For just one moment, Glenn glanced at Daryl—assessing—then he looked back at Carol and smiled again. “You take care,” he said.

“I’m trying,” said Carol.

Glenn’s eyes flicked back at Daryl—then back to Carol. “Good,” he said, grinning. “Nice to meet you, Daryl.” 

“Good night, Glenn,” Carol said, shutting the door as Glenn walked away.

Daryl moved so she could follow Sophia to the kitchen if she wanted, but didn’t move farther, in case she wanted to explain.

For a moment, she held onto the doorknob, looking at that shut door. Then she turned around. “Ed would usually go on his benders after hitting me,” she said, her voice low but matter-of-fact. “That’s when we would order pizza.”

Daryl waited.

“I knew Glenn noticed. He . . . asked me about it once. Asked me if he could help. He told me about a help hotline once. He’s a good kid.”

She looked tired, sagging against the door, hand still holding onto that knob as though it were a lifeline. 

“C’mon,” Daryl finally said. “Pizza’s getting cold.”

“Why does this have olives on it?” Sophia yelled from the kitchen.

Carol laughed.

*

Carol went back home on a Wednesday night. Daryl had tried to encourage her not to go at all; he was pretty sure you didn’t have to see a person to file for a divorce, but Carol wanted to do it. She said she was ready, and Daryl wanted to believe her. She said she’d be back by Friday night. She didn’t want Sophia to have to spend the weekend with him.

By Sunday, Daryl was losing his mind.

He couldn’t go over there. Ed was home on weekends, and Daryl didn’t want Ed to know about him. Even if he got Carol and Sophia out, it would make things worse. It would just make things so much worse; Ed was that much more likely to get violent with another man involved. It would put them all in danger. Even if Ed decided to go after Daryl instead of her, then Daryl wouldn’t have a safe place for them and that was the whole point, really—some place safe where Ed couldn’t go and didn’t know and could never find them.

For that reason, Daryl had tried to hold off calling her, but had given up by nine o’clock on Friday. She hadn’t answered, but shortly after, he’d gotten a text. _Everything’s fine_ , read the text. _Just taking longer than expected. Don’t worry_

She hadn’t answered her phone at all on Saturday.

Daryl called out from work on Sunday and kept freaking the hell out. He didn’t know what else to do, so he got his phone, scrolled through the contacts again, and pressed the button.

“Daryl?” said Rick.

“I think she’s in trouble,” said Daryl.

“Okay. It’s good you called me.” Rick’s voice was calm and steady. “What’s going on?”

“She said she’d be back on Friday,” said Daryl. 

“She went back to him?”

“I told her not to.”

“Okay,” Rick said again, so steady that it was beginning to piss Daryl off. “We’ll deal with this. Now, you think she’s in trouble? What makes you think that?”

“You been paying attention? Because he’s a bastard, that’s why.”

“Okay,” said Rick. “You have something I can go on?”

“He has a gun,” said Daryl. “He broke her wrist.”

“When?”

“What more do you need? You need him to mark her up? Do something permanent, so—”

“Daryl,” said Rick. “When did he break her wrist? Was it recent? Did this just h—”

“Last year or something. Man, why’s it fucking matter? He’s a danger to society, right? Shouldn’t he be taken out? He pulled a _gun_ on her.”

“Did he just do this? Did you see it?”

“No, I didn’t fucking _see_ it, what you want me to watch outside her window? Wait until he kills her?”

“When did you last see her?”

“Man, I fucking told you; she said she’d be back on Friday!”

“Okay,” Rick said. “I wanna see you.”

Daryl took a deep breath.

“Daryl,” said Rick, in that way that was like a command. “I wanna see you,” he said again. “Can you do that? Meet with me?”

Daryl sucked in another breath. Rick wasn’t telling him to calm down. Assholes were always trying to tell him to calm down—cops and counselors, teachers, authority figures who had no idea what it was like.

“I’m glad you called,” said Rick, smooth and steady like a road rolling out in front of him. “We’re gonna fix this. Can I see you, so you can tell me in person?”

“Yeah.” Daryl sucked in another breath. “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” Rick said again. “What about the Starbucks from before, that work for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I can be there in half an hour. You did the right thing, calling me.”

Daryl took another noisy breath.

“We’ll fix this, okay?”

Rick would know what to do.

“Daryl,” Rick said, like a command again. “We’re gonna fix it. You and me and Carol. Let me hear you say okay.”

“Okay,” Daryl said instantly.

“Okay,” said Rick. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

*

Daryl broke about fifty laws getting to the Starbucks, and when he got there he realized it hadn’t been necessary. He was fifteen minutes early with nothing to do but wait. Carol’d been with Ed all weekend; another fifteen minutes wasn’t gonna make a difference. He could’ve broken fewer laws. He could’ve changed into that long-sleeve shirt he’d bought. 

Instead Daryl went to the gas station down the street, bought a pack of cigarettes, then went back to the Starbucks to wait. He was too keyed up to care about Rick seeing him smoke.

It was his fault. He shouldn’t’ve let Carol go back there. He shouldn’t’ve let it happen.

He’d been smoking a few minutes, sitting on the curb outside the Starbucks, letting the nicotine race through his system, when he caught sight of his hand bringing the cigarette from his face. It was a smooth hand, fresh and clean, unmarked. 

Hardly seemed right, when he was so marked up—when Jake said he was such trash and he _knew_ he was such trash and Merle was such trash and he’d let _Carol_ go back to such trash. He’d let Carol go to get marked up again—get her wrist broke again, her eye busted again, her ribs bruised again.

Daryl looked at the cherry of his cigarette, burning a low red. It’d be so easy to give himself a mark. Ruin that smooth flesh. Make it hurt like he knew he deserved. He was almost curious about it, wondering whether it’d hurt the way it used to, whether it would still make him feel the way it used to—

“Daryl,” said Rick.

Daryl jerked the cigarette away, smashing it on the curb.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” said Rick.

“Sorry,” Daryl said quickly.

“What for?”

Daryl looked up at him. When he really thought about it, he’d called Rick because Rick made him feel calm inside, like everything was gonna be okay. He’d wanted that feeling for himself. It had been selfish, because calling Rick wouldn’t help Carol. After all, what could Rick do? 

“I don’t have anything,” Daryl said finally. “Probable cause, or anything.” 

Rick sat down on the curb next to him. “I sent a cruiser over,” he said.

“To Carol’s?” Daryl looked at him, surprised.

“Yeah. Soon as you called. Said we got another noise complaint and they should go check it out. Told them to knock on the door.” Rick’s blue eyes held his. “Mr. Peletier won’t know why they’re there. It’ll be okay; they can at least check it out.”

“When you gonna hear back?”

Rick took out his phone. “Should be soon,” he said, putting it away again, “but we got some time. We can wait.”

They sat there in silence a little while. Daryl wished he hadn’t put out his cigarette.

“You wanna talk about it?” Rick said finally.

Daryl shrugged.

“You were pretty worried over the phone,” said Rick. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Already told you.”

“Yeah,” said Rick. “You want coffee? Hot chocolate?”

“Man,” snapped Daryl, because Rick was using that spooked-horse voice on him again. “I ain’t a kid.”

“I know,” said Rick. “Daryl.”

Daryl’s gaze slid over to him against his will.

“You’re a friend,” Rick said firmly. “A friend who’s concerned enough to reach out. And now you done it you feel foolish about it, like maybe you overreacted. But you didn’t. You know how many people don’t speak out, when they think something’s wrong? Too selfish, too afraid, too worried about exposing themselves to whatever’s out there. That’s why everything goes to shit. You did a rare thing, the right thing—you stood up. You did what most people are afraid to do.”

Daryl couldn’t look at him. “They teach you that in cop school?” he muttered finally.

“What?”

“‘You done so good,’ ‘that’s a perfect job’, ‘you did right’? That kinda thing get people to do everything your way?”

Rick released a soft _huh_ , somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “‘That kinda thing’ is just saying what I think.”

“They teach you _that_ in cop school?”

“If they did it didn’t stick,” said Rick. “Usually get accused of the opposite.”

“What?” Daryl finally turned to him, finding it hard to believe anyone could accuse Rick of anything bad.

“Yeah.” Rick gave him a twisted smile. “Don’t talk about my feelings enough, apparently.”

Rick was in plainclothes, neat-fitting button-up tucked cleanly into dark jeans. The sleeves were rolled up and Daryl could see Rick’s arms—not particularly thick, but still dense with muscle, veins corded on top. Strong arms. Male arms, with lean, capable hands. Thick gold wedding band around the ring finger.

Daryl looked away. “How’s your boy?” he heard himself say. 

“Carl? Good.” A pause. “Guess I do talk some, huh?”

Daryl looked back at him, but Rick had turned away as well, looking off across the street. Rick’s hair was curly in back, thick and curling almost to the top of his collar. 

“I feel like I talk all the time,” said Rick, turning back but looking between his knees at the road, now, not at Daryl. “Sometimes all I do is talk. It’s not what’s supposed to matter. It’s how you act; that’s what matters.”

Daryl just kept looking at Rick’s neck, slope of his shoulders, stretch of his shirt across them. Rick hadn’t shaved in a few days but the facial hair still looked nice and neat, organized, a little salt in it.

“But I don’t know,” Rick said. “Sometimes even that’s not enough. Carl doesn’t understand why I won’t fight. He wants me to make a stand.”

“But you ain’t?” Daryl didn’t know what Rick was talking about, just that Rick seemed exactly the sort to make a stand and fight for something he believed in.

Rick shook his head. “Fighting is easy. It’s easy and it’s ugly. Takes a lot more strength to step back and let someone you love have what they want. For some reason, he doesn’t see that.”

“Maybe he will,” Daryl ventured. 

“Yeah.” Rick finally looked at him. “See? I talk.”

Daryl bit his lower lip, pulling at the skin with his teeth. Rick had that weight of the world look again. 

“You want coffee?” Daryl asked after a minute.

Rick looked at him.

“Hell, you want hot chocolate?” said Daryl.

Rick’s lips twitched. “Sure. Why not?”

They got up and went inside. Daryl bought the drinks, which made him feel better about the whole thing. Rick wasn’t treating him like a kid, like he’d just irrationally panicked and called him up for no reason. Maybe they really could think of a way to help Carol.

Daryl wasn’t really the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could think things through, and he had Rick, and Rick said things like _actions matter_ and _fighting doesn’t have to be the answer_. Daryl had never really known a person who said things like that—not anyone who seemed to mean them. Rick was what people called a good man. 

They could come up with something.

“Thanks for the drink,” Rick said, when they’d gotten their cups.

Daryl didn’t say anything, going over to a table. He sat down, weirdly satisfied with the way Rick followed him, sitting at the table he’d picked.

“Can you tell me what happened?” said Rick, once he was seated too. “Any hint why she went back to him?”

“Tell him she wanted a divorce,” Daryl said. He thought he’d already told Rick that, but maybe Rick was just being a cop, assembling information.

“Well, that explains why you’re concerned,” said Rick, setting down his chocolate. “When was that?”

“Wednesday.”

“Have you heard from her since then?”

“Got a text,” Daryl said, picking at the sleeve on his cup. Maybe he hadn’t told Rick all this. He must’ve really lost it on the phone, just like some kind of idiot. His temper had always been a problem. “Said she was okay, but I ain’t heard more since. That was on Friday,” he added, since now he didn’t even know how much he’d actually communicated. “She said she’d be back on Friday. And I don’t know if that text was really from her.”

“Yeah,” said Rick. “You think she went through with it? Telling him she wanted the divorce?”

Daryl shrugged.

“No way to know, I guess.” Rick took out his phone, scrolling through something on it. “Still haven’t heard back.”

Rick had a nice phone. Daryl picked the sleeve some more.

“Is the reason you haven’t gone to check on her because you’re worried what Mr. Peletier’s reaction might be?”

“Don’t give a shit about _Mr. Peletier_.”

“You don’t want to put Mrs. Peletier in danger.”

Daryl didn’t say anything, but after a long moment Rick said, “Yeah,” sounding like he hated it, but understood.

Rick sat there drinking the chocolate a while, Daryl’s eyes following the movement of the cup—up, down, up, Rick’s strong hand wrapped around it, Rick’s lips pressing against it—until Daryl realized what he was doing and looked at the table instead.

“Okay.” The tap of the cup back on the table startled Daryl into looking up. “This is what we’re gonna do,” said Rick. “You said Mr. Peletier works on Mondays?”

Daryl hadn’t said it this time, but he’d said it before. He guessed most people worked on Mondays, so it wasn’t a big deal.

Rick checked his phone again. “We’ll see what those officers I sent out have to say, then on Monday morning, I’ll do a drive by. Check and make sure Mr. Peletier’s at work; if he is, I’ll visit Mrs. Peletier myself. You work Mondays too, right?”

Daryl nodded. “She ain’t . . .”

Rick waited.

“She might not talk,” said Daryl.

“I know,” said Rick. “She’s scared.”

“Nah. Ain’t because she’s scared.”

Rick raised his brows. 

“Smart,” said Daryl. 

“You mean she knows the cops can’t always help if they can’t make a case, and Mr. Peletier could hurt her if he finds out the cops were there.” Rick thought about this. “Do you think she’ll be more likely to communicate with me if she knows I know you?”

“I told her about you,” said Daryl.

Rick’s brows went up again.

“Just said I knew a cop.” Then, because of the way Rick was looking at him, still surprised, “I didn’t tell her about your thing for hot chocolate, man.”

Rick smiled, just like Daryl’d meant him to, a big one that climbed up half his face. “Oh, you didn’t, did you?” Rick said.

Daryl felt his own lips twitch.

“Yeah, okay.” Rick rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell her I’m with you. Then after I see her, I’ll give you a call.” He gauged Daryl for a moment. “You want me to pass a note or something?”

He was teasing. Getting Daryl back for that comment about the chocolate. Daryl’s lip curled.

Rick held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just a messenger.”

“What if Ed don’t go to work?” 

The teasing fell away and Rick sighed. “Trickier.”

Daryl glanced at Rick’s hands, which turned his cup about, steady and deliberate rather than nervous. Then back up at Rick’s face, which looked determined.

“I could talk to some of Sophia’s teachers,” Rick said.

Daryl stiffened.

“I know Mrs. Peletier is a good mom,” said Rick, “but there’s only so many times I can send a cruiser to the house for no good reason. Even if there’s great reason, it isn’t much without probable cause.”

Frowning, Daryl waited.

“Teachers might not give enough for police to go on,” said Rick. “But could be enough for CPS.”

Daryl’s frown deepened.

“I know,” said Rick, “but they're not gonna take Sophia away. They can assess the situation. I know a caseworker there; he wouldn’t let that happen.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Daryl said, “So you send them in to tell you what’s going on?”

“Something like that. I don’t mean to make a false report—it would be a legitimate assessment of whether Sophia’s being treated appropriately. But they’d talk to Mrs. Peletier too, and the threat for Mr. Peletier is different than if it was the police coming by. He still might not take it well, but at least they’d get a look around.”

Daryl didn’t like it.

“Don’t wanna go that far?” said Rick.

Daryl glanced at Rick’s hands again. 

“C’mon, Daryl,” Rick said finally. “You know her better than me.”

Daryl made himself drag his eyes up to Rick’s face, his kind face with its strong jaw and soft lips, straight nose and concern in his brow, waiting for Daryl to contribute somehow, do something smart or right or brave. 

Goddammit.

“Sophia’s making all As,” Daryl heard himself say.

Rick’s brows slowly climbed his forehead. “You seen her report card?” he said after a long moment.

Daryl had come home from the garage one day to Sophia and Carol watching a movie. Carol had apologized, explaining it was a reward for Sophia’s grades, but that they could finish it another time. Daryl had asked to watch it with them—some teen vampire thing he’d heard Sophia talk about before. She seemed kinda afraid that he was there, like maybe she thought they couldn’t do fun things with him around, so he started asking questions about the characters and what was happening. She’d gotten more and more enthusiastic in her answers, kept on pausing it to explain new things. He’d kept asking questions so she’d explain more.

When the movie ended he’d asked how come the girl and the vampire guy hadn’t hooked up, and Carol explained it was only the first movie. _Mom said we only had time to watch one before you got home,_ Sophia had said.

 _You got straight A’s, right?_ Daryl had asked. _Seems like we should rent the rest._

There were three of those movies, two more on the way. Daryl had watched them all with her.

“‘Course you seen it,” Rick muttered, and it took Daryl a second to figure out he meant the report card. “You worried about her getting by in school?”

“Getting by in general.” 

Rick’s brows pulled together, an inquiry. 

Daryl focused on tearing the sleeve on his cup. “She’s already afraid enough. You get people checking how she’s supposed to live, she’s just got another thing to be afraid of.”

“You mean she’ll get afraid CPS will take her away?” 

“I meant . . . that’s just another thing he’s got to threaten her with.”

Rick was quiet so long Daryl finally looked up. “Okay,” Rick said softly. “We do it your way.”

Daryl felt again like he’d given something away. Maybe Rick could see Daryl knew how Ed thought because Daryl and Ed weren’t so very different from each other—mean drunks with shitty tempers, ignorant and ugly in their own small ways.

Daryl hadn’t felt like he’d said anything like that, but Rick was a cop, and not one of those shitkickers that just liked throwing people around and being right all the time. Rick was a cop like those ones on TV, those ones that could find things out just by asking the right questions and staring deep into you. 

“There a point at which you wanna go in and talk to her?” Rick said, the question low and kind of soft. “I mean, even if Ed Peletier is there. I understand you don’t want him to know about you, but there may come a time when she has to make a choice—especially with him having that gun, like you said.”

“I will,” Daryl said, wanting to show that he could be useful. “If she needs me to.”

“Okay,” said Rick, “then that’s what we do. I’ll try to check tomorrow and tell you how it is. You mind if I call you at work?”

“No.” Daryl shredded the sleeve some more. “I can try and take a break.”

A moment of silence. “You didn’t drink any of that hot chocolate.”

Daryl stopped shredding to glance up. “Man, you’re obsessed.”

Rick’s eyes held his. “You okay?”

Daryl didn’t like the way he asked, like he knew Daryl was the one who had a problem. Glancing down at the shredded cardboard, he guessed maybe he did; he’d still been an idiot over the phone. 

“I just meant you don’t have to do this alone,” Rick said.

“Yeah?” Daryl snapped. “Well, Carol does.”

“No, she doesn’t. She’s got you.”

Daryl didn’t like the way Rick said that, either, because he was saying it like Daryl was someone important now, someone who could do something. Rick was the one who was gonna check on Carol tomorrow and Rick was the one who’d sent the cruiser and Rick was the one who’d thought of those things in the first place. It made Daryl kinda resent him but also glad Rick was there, and that was what was important: that Rick was there for Carol, and Carol had someone like Rick who could help her.

“She’s got you too,” Daryl said roughly.

“Both of us,” said Rick. Something pinged on his phone. “Hold on,” he told Daryl, standing up. He moved away, talking on the phone over in a part of the Starbucks that didn’t have people in it, like he didn’t wanna bother nobody. 

Polite. Clean-cut, even with that five o’clock shadow. Trim and fit, leaner without the uniform, which made everyone seem bulky; Daryl didn’t know if it was that leanness that made it seem like Rick had an edge to him. He was good, so good and generous with his time, almost too tender with that soft mouth and kind eyes but there were things underneath it—firm and in-control and hard, determined.

His hips made Daryl’s mouth water.

Forcing himself to look away, Daryl glared at the hot chocolate, which was stupid. More of Rick being almost suspiciously nice, soothing just like the chocolate, even though Daryl was the one who’d bought it. Having hot chocolate was not what you did, anyway, when you went to go talk to a cop about a woman getting beat and a child afraid of her own daddy.

Reluctantly, Daryl tried the drink. It was good—creamy, really chocolatey. He should take Sophia here sometime. Carol would say it wasn’t healthy. 

She should have a hot chocolate too.

“That was the cruiser,” Rick said when he got back to the table, putting his phone into his back pocket, tight jeans. Daryl ripped his eyes away when Rick went on, “They said Carol answered the door.” Rick’s voice lowered. “They said she looked okay.”

“Was he there?”

Rick shook his head. “She said he was out. And the Cherokee was gone, so he probably was.”

“What about Sophia?”

“They asked whether everything was okay,” said Rick. “She said it was.”

Daryl scowled at his cup again. None of it sounded right, just like it hadn’t seemed right when she’d texted. He knew something was wrong, just wasn’t smart enough to figure out what, and how could he explain when she said everything was okay and Ed wasn’t even there? And maybe nothing out of the ordinary was really wrong; maybe it was just the same old thing—Carol going back to him because he was the father of her child and she didn’t have the resources to get Sophia what she needed on her own and she was a responsible, good mother who just wanted to do the right thing. What if it was just that? Then what could Daryl do, what was he even trying to do in the first place; what in the world had made him think he could make a difference?

And here he was having hot chocolate with Rick fucking Grimes, just because Rick told him things like he did a good job and was doing the right thing, just because Rick made him feel calm and special and like everything was okay. And that was so stupid, so stupid of Daryl; it was just because he was so fucked up and wanted so many nasty things—such nasty things—

Maybe if he wasn’t such a fucking faggot he could keep his head on straight. 

“Hey,” Rick said, reaching a hand out. It pressed on Daryl’s arm and Daryl realized he’d stood up, but Rick’s hand wasn’t grabbing him or restraining him or anything; it just pressed up against his shoulder, warm and strong. “Nothing to be done right now,” said Rick. “She’s okay.”

“Lemme go,” Daryl muttered. Pulling away, he grabbed his cup, walked across the Starbucks, dunked it in the trash. 

That was stupid. He should’ve punched Rick in the face.

Started to walk back to do just that, but it weren’t Rick’s fault Daryl was such a fuckup. It weren’t even really Rick he wanted to fight; Daryl just wanted to fight someone, hurt someone, get his knuckles bloody and yell at someone, but he couldn’t do that here in a Starbucks. He couldn’t do that to Rick, so he turned and pushed out of the Starbucks door, but there weren’t anyone to fight out in the street, either.

Dammit. He wanted—

Walked back towards the door, towards Rick, then away again. Wanted to get on the motorcycle and light out but Rick was right; there weren’t nothing to be done right now, and why couldn’t—

Why couldn’t he just be _better_ , there for her somehow, fix this—

The door to the Starbucks opened and Rick came out. “Hey.”

Daryl stopped pacing.

“You still think she’s in trouble,” Rick said.

Daryl went over to him. Got up in his face, and Christ, he wanted to destroy him. Destroy him and his goddamn beautiful mouth—soft just like a girl’s, but nothing like a girl’s. Daryl wanted to feel his fist against it, and Rick just looked at him. Eyes steady and sure, even though Daryl knew what he looked like—he _looked_ like a violent man. Daryl knew what Merle looked like when Merle was like this, and even though they looked nothing alike this was where the family resemblance always shone through.

But Rick just kept looking, holding Daryl’s eyes like he’d faced down a million demons before and was not afraid. He was just waiting to see what Daryl would do.

Jesus. His eyes were so blue. Cornflower silk.

“You wanna go over to Carol’s?” Rick said, after a long moment. “See for yourself?”

Daryl turned his back on him, stalked away.

“I can go with you,” Rick said.

“No,” Daryl gritted out. “It ain’t—if he—if he comes back in the middle it’ll just be bad.”

“Okay,” said Rick. “What do you want me to do?”

Daryl wanted him to stop being so fucking _helpful_ , quiet and supportive; why couldn’t he just fucking yell or tell Daryl he was overreacting or _something_ —

“Daryl,” Rick said, coming closer.

Daryl sucked in a breath.

“You were the one that told me to trust her,” Rick said. “You said she knew what was best, and would ask for the help she needed. You told me to trust her and I trust you. What do you want me to do?”

 _Tell me to stop_ , Daryl wanted to say but he couldn’t. If he could say that then he could stop himself, couldn’t he; he knew he needed to, didn’t need someone to tell him. Didn’t need someone to tell him to be good and calm down and shut up and all those other things.

He wanted Rick to do it anyway.

Wanted him to say more of those things: _here’s what we’re gonna do_ or _let me hear you say okay_ or _you done so good_ and _proud of you;_ they were all the same to him and Daryl didn’t know why. Sometimes they just felt safe, or nice, like comfort; sometimes they felt so viscerally good that Daryl thought maybe Jake was right. He was like an animal, a dog: just wanted to be told what to do and good job for doing it.

He sucked in another breath, shoulders slumping. He didn’t even know why he was so mad.

Rick was standing there, waiting on an answer.

“Dunno,” Daryl muttered finally, because he didn’t remember the question anymore. Feeling around his jeans he found where he’d put the cigarette pack, then fumbled for a moment to get one of them out. Got out the terrible cheap lighter he’d bought then started fumbling with that, too—then Rick was there, close, his hand brushing Daryl’s as it took the lighter. 

Rick lit it up, held it. Daryl had to lean in to get it lit. God, he was shaking. Such a fucking pussy. 

Rick handed back the lighter and Daryl was very careful not to touch him again when he took it back. 

“Get a drink with me,” Rick said. He had been looking out across the street, but now he looked at Daryl.

Daryl, uncertain and still feeling off-kilter, glanced at the Starbucks.

“I mean a real drink,” said Rick.

Daryl looked up at the sky, back down. 

“There’s a bar across the way.” Rick nodded his head along the street. “Good whiskey.”

“It ain’t past four,” Daryl said.

“Yeah,” said Rick. 

Daryl waited, wanting him to say another one of those things— _let me hear you say okay_ —but Rick didn’t, just held his eyes, brow knit together like he was waiting on something, or trying to figure something out. Daryl looked down in the direction Rick had indicated, then finally back at him. “So it ain’t just hot chocolate?” Daryl said. “Just beverages in general?”

“Some beverages more than others,” said Rick. A smile flickered at the corner of those lips and Daryl struggled not to lick his own.

His mouth was suddenly dry.

This was a bad idea. In a world of bad ideas, this was the worst one.

“Okay,” said Daryl.


	6. Chapter 6

Carol shot her husband on a Thursday.

The bar Rick and Daryl had gone to on Sunday was a dive as far as Daryl could tell. He’d never really been to a nice bar to compare it to, but he’d been to plenty of shitty ones and the one they went to was a lot like them—dark and a dirty in the corners with ads up everywhere and a big old crummy TV. 

Rick had gotten a whiskey neat, which seemed sorta hardcore for a guy who liked such fluffy coffee drinks. Daryl had gotten his on the rocks mostly because he didn’t want to get wasted. He hadn’t wanted to get any, really, because he hadn’t want to act like an idiot in front of Rick. Who knew what he’d say to him if he were drunk.

They hadn’t gotten drunk, though. Or Daryl hadn’t and Rick hadn’t seemed like he had, even though he’d had about five of them whiskeys. Boy could take his liquor, Daryl guessed. 

They hadn’t done much of anything, really, just sat there drinking, not even talking. At first Daryl had been uneasy about that, thinking maybe he should say something, thinking maybe Rick expected him to talk. Eventually, though, it hadn’t seemed so awkward, and Daryl started thinking once again that maybe Rick just wanted someone to be quiet with. Daryl didn’t know what it was like for other people, but he did know most people talked more than him. Carol was real nice but she weren’t exactly the silent type. Still more reserved than Sophia, who was a little chatterbox, and nothing could compare to Merle, who’d talk your ear off.

Rick, though—Rick wasn’t really a talker. Only seemed like a conversationalist because he and Daryl were usually alone when they talked. And even then Rick would say a lot without saying too much, like the way he sometimes just said _yeah_ and the way Daryl felt like he could read a novel in Rick’s brows.

After nearly fifteen minutes of mostly just sitting, Rick had asked if Daryl played pool. Daryl had lied and said, “A bit,” because he might think Rick was a good guy but Daryl was still an asshole. Anyway pool was something Daryl knew, and it was nice to be on some kind of familiar playing ground with Rick, who so consistently made Daryl feel off-kilter.

On Monday, Rick had said he was gonna check on Carol, and Daryl was at the garage when he’d gotten a call. He’d been expecting it, told his boss he was gonna get an important call from a family member who was having a medical emergency, and could he choose when to take his break? When the call came, though, it wasn’t Rick—it was Carol.

“I hear you been worried about me,” said Carol.

Daryl didn’t know what to say. His heart was thumping about a million miles a minute, because what if Rick hadn’t been able to get to Carol’s because Ed was there, and what if Ed were making her call; what if Ed was there right now standing right there over her—

“Your friend Deputy Grimes is here,” Carol went on. “You really didn’t need to get so worked up over poor lil ole me.”

Daryl wanted to tell her to cut the bullshit, but his heart was still settling back in its proper place. He took another deep breath, and for another long moment, Carol didn’t say anything.

When she spoke again her voice was serious, instead of that lilting tease. “Ed wanted to take her to the fair. I know I shouldn’t, but he’s her father. He can be charming, sometimes, believe it or not. And Sophia deserves a good memory. I think he wanted to give her one too.”

“You mean before you go,” Daryl said.

“I mean before I go,” Carol affirmed. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Good,” Daryl said roughly. “That’s good.”

“Oh, pookie,” she said, still in that soft, serious way. “I appreciate you looking out for me.”

She was teasing, calling him that, knowing it was sickeningly sweet and that he’d object. Instead it made his heart ache, twisting inside until his throat felt tight. That was what she called Sophia sometimes, when she was teasing her too, giving her a hard time for caring too much about something unimportant.

Knowing someone so well, knowing what they meant with just a word, all of it felt so new to him. He knew her all the way down.

Carol went on, her voice brightening, “Your Deputy Grimes is a real fella.”

“Yeah.”

“So, you boys are friends?”

Daryl grunted noncommittally, then thought of something. “He’s nuts about hot chocolate.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, keep it away from him.”

“He says keep you away from hot chocolate,” Carol said, muffled, the phone pulled away from her mouth while she talked to Rick. A pause. Then she said into the phone, “He says you promised not to tell.”

“I didn’t promise shit,” said Daryl.

Another pause, muffled talking. “I already knew that,” Carol said, obviously to Rick.

“What?” Daryl couldn’t tell how he felt about them talking about him.

“He says you’re a hustler,” said Carol.

“I ain’t,” Daryl said, offended, even though he was totally a hustler.

“Mm-hm,” murmured Carol, not believing him for a second.

Daryl glanced over at the cars in the shop. His ten minutes was almost up. “When’re you coming home?”

A pause, and then Daryl realized what he’d said. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Carol said in her gentle voice, the one that sounded just like a mom. “You know I can’t live there with you.”

Daryl’s heart started thudding again.

“I got a lawyer,” Carol went on, “and she said I’ve got to make sure I get full custody, and it looks bad if I immediately go shacking up with someone—”

“We ain’t shacking up.”

“Well, _I_ know that,” said Carol. “What with your fifty women over on a weekend.”

“I didn’t,” Daryl said, embarrassed that she was bringing that up again. And with Rick listening in. Him thinking Daryl shacked up with fifty women on a weekend was probably a good thing, so he wouldn’t know how nasty Daryl was, but at the same time Daryl didn’t want Rick thinking he’d do fifty women. He didn’t want Rick thinking he’d do one woman, or anyone, really; he wanted Rick not to associate him with sex at all, ever, and belatedly it occurred to Daryl that maybe Carol kept bringing it up because she did associate him with sex, maybe a little.

“What I mean is,” Carol was saying, “I got to make it on my own. I’ve got to prove I can, so I get Sophia. I’m applying for jobs—” 

Muffled talking. 

“I know that,” Carol said, in reply to something Rick had said.

“What?” The fact that he wasn’t there to hear what Rick was saying was making Daryl squirm. God, he wanted a cigarette so bad. 

“Nothing,” Carol said into the phone. “I have to do this my own way.”

“But you ain’t gotta do it alone,” said Daryl.

“Well, if Deputy Grimes has his way he’s all set to move in.”

Daryl perked up. “Can he do that?”

“Ed’s taking this well so far,” Carol said instead. “I don’t wanna put that in jeopardy. My staying with you would upset him. It’s better for me to get a stable situation.”

“I get it,” Daryl said. 

“Tell that to Deputy Grimes. You ever notice he’s a busybody?”

“You got gall, girl,” Daryl said, because she’d said that with Rick standing right there. 

“He’s just very insistent.”

Daryl chewed on the side of his thumb. “Lemme talk to him.”

More muffled conversation. Then Rick’s voice: “Daryl.”

“Ed knows where Sophia goes to school.”

A long pause. “I know.”

“Carol picks her up. She gets a job, someone else’s gotta pick her up. What if they don’t get to the school on time? Even once. What if there’s a traffic jam?”

A pause. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Ain’t gonna stop unless you arrest him. Ain’t like she can just pull Sophia out of school.”

“I just don’t like it.”

“You gonna arrest him?”

“I could.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Long enough for her to get set up so’s he don’t know where she is?”

“Probably not.”

“Then what do you want her to do?”

Rick sighed. “It’s what I wish _I_ could do.” 

“Man, I wish you could too.”

“Yeah.”

Hearing the resignation in his voice, Daryl said, “Sorry I told Carol about that chocolate thing. Just didn’t want you’re crack obsession sneaking up on her unawares.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Daryl could hear Rick’s smile. “You just wanna give up all my secrets.” 

Teasing Rick was like a shot of adrenaline, something that warmed and energized all at once, made Daryl want to rush forward and his hands shake all at the same time. Daryl didn’t know what to do with it, so he grunted. “Nah, man. Just that one.”

“Oh? So what’re you keeping to yourself?”

“You suck at pool.”

“That’s not true.”

“I guess you’re alright. For a cop.”

“Yeah.” 

There was that resignation again. Like what, did Rick think he was some kinda badass at pool?

“Here’s Carol,” Rick said, before Daryl could ask.

More muffled talking, then Carol again: “What did you say to him?”

“Said he was a cop.” Daryl grunted. “That some kinda disappointing truth?”

“He wanted me to come down to the station and make a statement before,” Carol said. “Now he says he’ll check back in on Friday.”

“That’s good.” Chewing on his thumb, Daryl glanced back at the garage. His manager was frowning in his direction. “Look, I gotta go.”

“Thank you,” said Carol. “For caring.”

“Always,” said Daryl.

The next time Carol called was on Thursday. She was crying, almost incoherent. “You need to come,” was the only thing he could get out of her. “Please come. Right now.”

*

When Daryl got to Carol’s house, the front door was open.

Daryl didn’t even park the bike, wasn’t sure what actually happened to it. Just remembered leaping off of it running up to the door. “Carol,” he was yelling, but there was no reply.

Ed was in the kitchen, pool of blood beside him.

Daryl barely spared it all a glance. “Carol,” he yelled.

When he found them, they were in the bedroom closet. Sophia was crying; Carol had her arms around her, saying, “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. We’re all okay now, baby.”

Daryl turned the light on, crouched down. “Lemme see.”

Carol wouldn’t let go of Sophia, but her face was clear, weren’t no bruises on it. Daryl touched her neck, ran his hands over her arms. Didn’t wanna touch Sophia with her so upset, but needed to see her, make sure she wasn’t hurt. “She okay?” he asked Carol.

Carol choked on her own tears.

“Shh,” said Daryl, put his hand on her back, his other one gently on Sophia’s hair. “Shh. Sophia, sweetheart, c’mon. Lemme just see.”

She turned her face enough for him to see, but didn’t meet his eyes, just turned and flung her arms around her mother, scooting up close. Least nothing was broke, and it didn’t look like she was marked up none. “Okay, honey,” he said, pulling his hand away. “Carol, you got your phone?”

Carol looked up at him with watery eyes.

“Your phone,” said Daryl. “You gotta call.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna get Rick.”

“Rick?” said Carol.

Daryl looked around. Her phone had to be here somewhere; she’d called him to bring him here. Finding it eventually on the floor in the bedroom, he picked it up, brought it over to Carol. “Call 911.”

“But I . . .” Carol looked over at the kitchen for the first time since he’d arrived.

“Won’t let anything happen to you,” Daryl said roughly. Grabbed her hand, pushed the phone into it. “ _Rick_ won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.”

Carol looked at him. Her expression hardened, fingers closing around the phone.

Daryl went back to the kitchen, pulling out his own phone. 

The gun was on the floor, a few feet down the hall. The bullet had gone into Ed’s shoulder, but there wasn’t too much blood. Hair and blood on the counter—she’d shot him and he’d hit his head on the way down. Daryl dropped to his knees by Ed. 

Ed’s neck was clammy while Daryl felt for a pulse. There, but thready. Daryl leaned in, holding his hand over Ed’s mouth. Felt like maybe a brush of air—this was good.

Daryl turned back to his phone and found the number.

“Hey, Daryl,” said Rick.

“You best come over here,” said Daryl.

*

When Rick got there, Daryl was in the closet with Carol and Sophia. Carol was a little better but Sophia just wouldn’t talk; Carol had her arms around her and kept stroking her hair. Daryl had an arm around Carol, thought maybe he should stroke _her_ hair, but didn’t quite know how to do it. Didn’t know how to hold her either, but when he’d tried to move, she’d clung to him.

The paramedics were already in the kitchen. Ed had been alive when they got there, but Daryl didn’t know if he still was.

Soon as he saw Rick’s boots and looked up to find Rick there, looking down at them, Daryl scrambled to his feet. “What do I gotta do?” he asked.

“Stay with them.” That was all Rick said, but then he put his hand on Daryl’s shoulder and just—squeezed, and that said a million things.

When Rick came back again it was with a paramedic. “This is Rachel,” Rick said, his voice real gentle and low. Daryl realized he’d hardly ever heard Rick talk to Carol, even though she had been what brought them together—just that first time, when Sophia got lost. “She’s gonna check you out—that okay?”

Carol held Sophia tighter.

Rick put his hand out, squeezed Carol’s shoulder just as he had Daryl’s. “Carol,” he said softly, “is that alright?”

“We’re fine,” said Carol.

“Rachel’s just gonna have a look at you.”

Carol nodded and turned to steel. “Come on, pookie,” she told Sophia. Getting up, she pulled Sophia with her.

“Carol, right?” said Rachel. “Come on. Let’s just have you sit on the bed.” 

Carol and Sophia did as Rachel said. As Rachel checked them out, Rick came over to Daryl. “Do you know what happened?” Rick asked quietly.

Daryl’s gaze started to slide over to him, but it was hard to take his eyes off Carol and Sophia. “Called me,” he said, watching as Rachel put her hand on Sophia’s back and asked her to breathe. “Found Ed in the kitchen.” 

Then Daryl realized why Rick was asking, and this sick feeling, like a hand clenching a fist in his guts, started climbing up into his chest. He turned to Rick, not distracted anymore. “It was self-defense.”

“What did Ed look like? In the kitchen?”

Rick was a cop.

He was a fucking _cop_.

Daryl didn’t know why in hell he’d been thinking Rick would help, and the worst part of it was it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter now; Daryl was too far in it—not just this situation with Carol. He was too far in it with _Rick_. Just looking at him made that sick fist in his gut loosen, let him breathe a little easier. Daryl couldn’t make himself stop trusting him now and hated himself for that, just a little. 

So he told him everything.

Told him about the call, the way Ed had looked in the kitchen. The way he’d found Carol and Sophia in the closet, Carol barely coherent, the way Sophia wouldn’t talk. Told Rick about getting Carol’s phone, giving it to her, going back to the kitchen and figuring out Ed was alive.

“You had her call 911?” Rick seemed surprised.

Could’ve hid the gun, gotten rid of it. Could’ve said he was the one who took the shot. Could’ve gotten Carol the hell out of dodge, but instead, Daryl had called up a cop. “Knew the cops’d get here quickest,” Daryl said finally.

“Good thinking.”

Daryl spared him a glance. “Ain’t good. Just practical.”

He could feel Rick staring at him, but Daryl went back to watching Rachel-the-paramedic check Sophia’s legs now. Rachel was wearing those blue gloves, steadily checking her out for hurt or pain much more thoroughly than Daryl had done. 

“You seem calm,” Rick remarked.

Daryl shrugged. “They’re okay.”

A pause. “Mr. Peletier isn’t.”

Daryl flicked him another gaze. “He dead?”

“Stabilized.”

Rachel moved on to Carol, done with Sophia for the time being. 

“Couldn’t’ve happened to a nicer guy,” Daryl said.

Now the paramedic was having Carol breathe. Must be to make sure her airway was clear, lungs weren’t punctured, nothing like that. Maybe they really were okay. 

“Hey,” said Rick.

Daryl turned to him.

“Look after them,” said Rick.

Daryl turned back. “Don’t gotta ask.” 

Rachel ran her hands over Carol’s arms, then her legs.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “I know.”

There was something strange about Rick’s voice, but he was already walking away. Daryl turned back to the girls.

*

Daryl was sitting with Carol and Sophia on the bed when Rick got back. Daryl had planned on sitting next to Carol, but Sophia’d grabbed his hand. Hadn’t let go, so Daryl had sat down next to her so Sophia had someone on either side of her. Rachel was showing Sophia the stuff in her kit, but Sophia wasn’t really paying attention, her grip on Daryl’s hand more claw-like than really holding it. Rick didn’t say anything, just tilted his head a bit.

Gently, Daryl extracted his hand. “Be right back, hon,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “You look after your mom.”

When Daryl got over to Rick, Rick wasn’t looking at him any more, his eyes on the girls. “I gotta arrest her,” he said, and slowly turned back to Daryl.

Daryl bit his lip. “Okay,” he said, because there was nothing else to do, really.

Rick gave him another strange look, then turned to the door, gesturing. Another cop came in, a real young brunette, pretty, nice eyes. “This is Deputy Chambler,” said Rick. “I thought she could stay with you and Sophia while I tell Carol.”

“You ain’t gonna cuff her up,” Daryl said, feeling that sick feeling again, wanting to climb back into his chest.

“No. Shouldn’t have to.” 

Okay.

Okay, that was fine.

Rick frowned, brow creasing. “Listen, Daryl . . . we wanna bring you too. Just for questioning.”

“Whatever.” Daryl shrugged. “Sophia?”

Rick gave him a strange look again, then turned to look at Sophia. “She can come along. I called that caseworker I said I knew.”

“Yeah.” Daryl swallowed. “Anything I can do?”

Rick turned back, something still impossible to read in his face. When he put his hand on Daryl’s arm Daryl was ready for it, almost—but not quite—expecting it. Having steeled himself against the warmth of it, the strong grip and the callouses in Rick’s hands, it was almost reassuring, but Daryl’s skin still crawled underneath it, too hot and wanting it too much. “You’re already doing it,” said Rick, letting him go.

He went over to Carol, and Daryl turned to Deputy Chambler. “She likes horses,” Daryl told her. “And vampires.”

*

Daryl was at the station until early morning, answering cop questions. They had someone there at the station to coordinate care for Sophia, but Rick asked if they could get the caseworker he knew, which took a little bit longer. 

Sophia asked Daryl why she couldn’t just go with him. It broke his heart a little, probably some legal shit about how he wasn’t a designated guardian, but even if he had been she shouldn’t’ve gone home with him, all the nasty sex and drugs he’d done, the marks on him, his brother in jail. Hell, Daryl had been in jail enough himself.

So they waited there with Deputy Chambler, who said she had a niece around Sophia’s age. They stayed in a room with some chairs and a table that didn’t feel too much like an interrogation room, but through the door they could see the bullpen. Deputy Walsh had passed by, but he didn’t seem to be Rick’s partner anymore. Chambler seemed real green; maybe Rick had to train the newbie.

After around an hour, the caseworker showed up. He was a guy named Tyreese, big as a linebacker but soft-spoken as a priest. Daryl watched the way he was with Sophia, feeling on high alert; couldn’t they get someone—he didn’t know—female? But Tyreese was just so nice Daryl felt like a dick for doubting Rick’s choice, and watching him made a weird sort of envy churn in Daryl’s gut. 

Sometimes Daryl thought maybe it was the way he looked that made him such an asshole; no one expected him to be nice and so he never was. But Tyreese was just about the gentlest person Daryl had ever seen and Sophia took to him immediately in a way she never had to Daryl, even though he’d tried.

Tyreese said he had an emergency foster—someone Rick knew too. Rick had set it all up, which Daryl guessed meant knowing a cop _did_ have its perks. Whoever got Sophia was gonna be just as good as Tyreese or even better, because they probably had a pretty home all set up for her with the right kinda toys or whatever twelve-year-old girls wanted, and Jesus why did he care so much. Carol was all alone probably scared out of her mind and here Daryl was jealous that he was too fucked up to take care of her daughter for her.

Eventually Tyreese took Sophia away. None of the cops had any more questions and Daryl just sat there in booking, chewing the side of his thumb. Wanted a smoke, but good luck with that in a police station, and besides, he hadn’t brought cigarettes.

“Hey,” Rick said, sitting beside him.

Hoss looked exhausted. 

Daryl took his thumb out of his mouth. “Why are you still here?” he asked, a lot more accusatory than he meant to sound.

Rick rubbed his eyes. “Why are you?”

He didn’t sound offended at all and Daryl wanted to make him untired.

He wanted to bring him a cold drink.

He wanted to sit behind him and begin at the nape, work out every single kink, get his thumbs digging into knots of muscle in Rick’s neck, get his fingers pushing against Rick’s flesh, heels of his hands on Rick’s spine, working his way down.

Daryl wanted to stand at the door and make sure no one could bother him, no one could ask him for anything more, no one could talk to him. Rick could just be alone and rest, because of Daryl.

He hadn’t guarded Carol well enough. That was why this was happening in the first place.

Putting his thumb back against his mouth, Daryl started tearing at his cuticle again.

“They’re not gonna do the arraignment till Monday,” Rick said.

“Mm.”

“Peletier isn’t doing well. He might not make it.”

Well, good. Fucker deserved to die. Daryl refrained from saying it, though.

“They could charge her with murder. You know that, right?” Rick turned toward him more fully.

“Self-defense.”

“Yeah. Still second degree.”

Daryl chewed on his thumb.

Sighing, Rick closed his eyes. Tilted his head back. The lids of his eyes looked bruised—violet smudges on that delicate skin. His eyelashes were so long.

Daryl looked away. “You should go.”

“So should you.”

“Lawyer’s still coming.”

Rick brought his head down, opened his eyes, turned toward him. “You . . .” He shook his head. “You’re just so fucking loyal.”

Daryl didn’t know whether it was a compliment. Rick had that strange look on his face, and hearing him cuss was weird. He sounded as exhausted as he looked, voice torn all to shreds.

“How did you get that way?” Rick asked. “How does that happen, with a woman who’s not even yours?”

Daryl flinched.

“Shit.” Rick rubbed his eyes again. “Sorry.”

“It ain’t like that,” Daryl heard himself say.

“Yeah. I know. I didn’t mean—”

“I’d never do that,” Daryl said.

“I didn’t think you would.”

“I ain’t a cheater,” Daryl blurted.

Rick stared at him.

Someone up at the desk was shuffling papers. Police were walking around back there, some at desks, some in uniform. Around the hall Daryl could hear this hooker they brought in twenty minutes ago kicking up a fuss. 

When Rick finally spoke, his voice was low. “Even if you were—even if Carol was—it don’t change who you are. It doesn’t make you a different kind of person. Cheating is just something people do, a mistake people make. It can be forgiven.”

“But I didn’t,” said Daryl.

“Yeah. I know. I was just . . .” Rick passed his hand over his face. “Ed Peletier’s the one who broke his vows, the minute he raised his hand against her. It’s not even the same.”

 _Same as what?_ Daryl wanted to asked, because belatedly he’d realized Rick wasn’t actually talking about him and Carol at all, and he felt thick for not being able to figure it out. Maybe exhaustion was making him stupid. Rick had said he wanted to put his family back together. Did that mean Rick . . . ? Or was it his wife?

“You haven’t seemed bothered by any of this.” Rick had been looking off into the distance, but now he was looking at Daryl again.

Daryl didn’t know what he was supposed to say.

“You held it together when we were looking for that little girl, too.”

“I could wave my arms and yell like Deputy Walsh if you wanted,” Daryl said, after a long moment.

“No. You’re nothing like Deputy Walsh.”

The way Rick said it stung. Daryl knew him and Walsh were friends, and Rick said it so emphatically, as if there was just no way you could possibly compare. But that was probably true, anyway—Walsh was a cop. Probably on every level a better than Daryl, except for maybe his ability to snort a line of coke. Daryl was just great at that.

“I’m gonna go see about that lawyer,” said Rick, standing up. He looked down at Daryl. “Mrs. Peletier said you promised her I’d help her.”

Daryl looked up at him.

“I’m going to do everything I can,” said Rick.

Daryl watched him walk away.


	7. Chapter 7

The next month was mostly hell.

Ed pulled through. Doctors said he was gonna make a full recovery. Daryl couldn’t decide what opinion to have about that. Meanwhile Carol was charged with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. 

Rick had said Daryl had taken the whole thing calmly, but he hadn’t really been calm. He just hadn’t had anyone to be mad at other than himself. And Ed, he guessed, but Ed weren’t around to take it out on and none of this shit would’ve happened if Daryl had worked harder on finding Carol a way out. Like putting flowers in the goddamn yard had done a single fucking thing for her.

When Merle fucked up Daryl could yell at him; when Merle’s friends fucked up Daryl could at least beat the shit out of them. But shit like this, who knew? What could you do, really? Yell at Rick for following the law? Yell at Carol for looking after her own daughter? Best just turn around and beat up a fucking mirror.

Daryl hadn’t been calm looking for Sophia that time they’d all met either; he’d been _collected_. He’d had a job to do and knew how to do it. At the station he’d known he had to stay until Sophia got took care of and Carol got her lawyer, but then the lawyer had shown up and there was nothing he could do. 

Nothing he could do in the coming weeks either. Couldn’t make bail, not that he’d expected he could. He thought about selling the trailer—Merle wasn’t there to care and Daryl hated it anyway, but then he wouldn’t’ve had a place for her if she needed one once she got out, and furthermore it wouldn’t’ve covered nearly half of the bail anyway. 

He went to see her as much as he could—as much as they allowed visiting hours and as often as he could fit it around his hours at the garage. That first time, she looked worse for wear—lines in her face and exhaustion around the eyes, but she smiled at the officer and said thank you in her sunny sweet voice, the fake one. Then the officer left and she turned that smile on him. “I’m okay, pookie,” she said. “Really, I am.”

“Quit it,” Daryl said.

“I _am_ fine,” she said, the smile dropping. “All I care about’s Sophia.”

“Rick says she’s okay.”

“Rick’s a cop.”

Daryl looked at his hands.

“Okay,” Carol said after a while. “You’re right.”

Daryl looked up.

“He’s been good to me,” said Carol.

Daryl wished he could give her a tissue, but he wasn’t supposed to give her anything. He wouldn’t care about what they instructed, but he didn’t want to make things worse for her, and Carol didn’t really like to admit when she was crying most times anyway. At least they hadn’t cuffed her up.

“He says he’ll testify if it comes to that,” Carol said.

Of course he would. Rick had said he’d do anything.

“You’re the only one who isn’t asking what happened that day,” Carol pointed out.

“I know what happened,” Daryl said.

Carol looked away. “Maybe I don’t deserve to see Sophia.”

“You saved her.”

“I shot my husband.” 

“Don’t make him a harmless bystander,” Daryl snapped.

Carol pushed her lips together. “He’s still her father.”

“Yeah. Well. Don’t look at me if you want a guilt trip.”

Carol’s compressed expression twisted. “I don’t want a guilt trip. I just want to know I did the right thing.”

“Sophia’s safe now,” Daryl said, more gently.

“I just wish I could know for myself,” said Carol. “Having Deputy Grimes say she’s okay is different than seeing her.”

Daryl remembered thinking of Carol like a bird: delicate but strong. Her hair was just a little longer than when he’d first met her, a pretty silver color. It reminded him of doves’ wings, the shadowed underside, where it was softer and you could feel their beating heart the hardest. The part you saw when they flew from trouble for the sky.

“I could go,” said Daryl

“Could you?” said Carol, barely daring to look hopeful.

“I’ll ask Rick,” said Daryl.

*

Daryl had to be escorted to see Sophia—Daryl guessed because he wasn’t family, but Carol requested it, Rick had made it happen, and Tyreese was the one to be the escort, so it worked out.

Michonne was everything Tyreese had said and Daryl had expected: beautiful and nice with a real pretty house. He hadn’t expected she’d look even tougher than the lawyer lady and Tyreese put together, but she did; there was a kind of no-nonsense about her that was extremely appealing. She had a four-year-old named Andre, and Sophia seemed to be getting along, but Daryl didn’t know what to do to “check in.” 

After the initial introductions, Michonne went on to the kitchen while Tyreese stayed in the background to do his supervision. Daryl stood there in the living room with Sophia, who was reading a book that wasn’t about horses. Carol had always been there with him in the past, and Daryl wasn’t used to having conversations with just her.

“Hey,” he said tentatively, sort of shifting foot to foot.

Sophia barely looked up from the book. “Hey,” was all she said.

“You okay?”

“Yup.” She turned the page.

Daryl looked around, at a loss for what to ask her. “Eating okay?”

“Yup.” 

“Anything you want me to tell your mom?”

“Nope.” Sophia turned another page.

She was smart, but she definitely didn’t read that fast. “Tyreese said we could go out for a drink.”

“Don’t you think I’m a little young to be drinking?” 

She turned another page, and Daryl tried not to flinch. He’d never heard her talk that way, ever, that sarcastic tone.

“Daryl?” said Michonne. “Come on, let me show you the kitchen.”

Daryl didn’t wanna see no kitchen, but Sophia obviously didn’t want him there, so Daryl went.

Michonne was cutting up vegetables on a wood square. “Mom just shot her dad,” Michonne said. “She’s gotta be upset at someone.”

Daryl eyed her. “She upset with you?”

“Nope.” Picking up the wood square, Michonne dumped the cucumber into a bowl. “But it’s gotta be someone.

Daryl rocked on his feet, watching as she cut up some radishes next. He hoped Tyreese wouldn’t try to convince Sophia to come with him; she should just do what she wanted. But Daryl had thought—he’d hoped, rather—that what Sophia would want would be to come with him.

“She cry at all?” Daryl asked finally.

Michonne eyed him, then just went back to the radishes, sweeping them off the board and into the bowl again. “Not so’s I can see.”

Daryl rocked on his heels some more. “She ask . . . ?” he began, but didn’t know how to finish. Didn’t want to hear if she’d asked for Ed, and of course Sophia would want Carol but had to know she wasn’t gonna get her, and there was no way Sophia would ask for him. Just no way.

“You should go back in there, now.” Michonne cut the stem off a head of lettuce. “She’s probably ready.”

Daryl frowned, watching Michonne’s capable hands as she tore the lettuce apart. “Ready?”

“She wanted to see you,” Michonne said. “That’s why she’s so angry.”

“She say that?”

“No. But I know.” Michonne kept tearing the lettuce.

 _What makes you think you know anything?_ Daryl wanted to ask, but instead he said, “Rick said you’re good.”

Michonne released a small _huh_ of laughter. “Rick’s not really a man you doubt,” was all she said, so Daryl went back to the living room. Sophia didn’t actually object to going out for a bit, so Daryl told Tyreese they were going to a Starbucks.

When they got there, Daryl bought her hot chocolate, but Sophia didn’t say anything about that either, just made a face. Tyreese sat at a different table, reading a book.

“Is everything good?” Daryl asked, once they had sat down a few tables away from Tyreese. 

“I said I was fine,” said Sophia.

She had said that, but Daryl had wanted to ask again now that they were out of Michonne’s house, just in case. Michonne seemed great, but Daryl had been in foster; he knew that appearances were not always what they seemed. But Sophia didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and he’d always hated it when people tried to make him talk.

They sat there and drank hot cocoa in silence.

“You sure there ain’t nothing you want me to tell your mom?” Daryl asked after fifteen minutes. She’d already said there wasn’t back at Michonne’s, but it was important to ask that one again too, and they were almost done with their hot chocolate.

“Am I sure there isn’t anything,” said Sophia.

It was one of the first things she’d said, and he didn’t know quite what she meant by it.

“ _Isn’t_ anything,” said Sophia. “‘Ain’t’ isn’t a word.”

Daryl blinked.

“And I don’t even like horses,” said Sophia. “I think they’re stupid.” 

She seemed a little too thin, but she always had. Otherwise, she looked better than she had even sometimes with Carol: her skin soft and white with a rosy glow, her eyes wide awake, not tired. Her hair was combed; her clothes fit. There was not a single thing he could do to make things better for her, even by a longshot.

“Okay,” he said, because he could tell she’d said what she did to hurt him, and she had. “You done?”

Sophia glared at her cup.

Daryl stood up, took her cup—which was empty—and his own, took them to the trash. Went over to Tyreese, let him know they could go back.

The whole way in the car, she looked out the window, and Daryl wished he could hit something. He just wanted to hit something, hit it hard and make it bleed, make it bleed or make himself bleed, didn’t matter. He wished he had those cigarettes, burn a hole into himself until he could think about something else.

Of course she wouldn’t want to see him. Daryl had known that, but Carol wanted him to check on her, and Daryl would do anything for her. But Sophia wouldn’t want to see the guy who was there right after her daddy got shot, the guy who hadn’t been able to stop it in the first place. The guy who didn’t know how to talk to women and little girls and take care of them, make a nice place for them, help them the way they should be helped.

When they got back to Michonne’s, he walked with her up the path, Tyreese a little ways behind them. Daryl stopped at the door, reached into his back pocket. “This phone number,” he said, giving her the folded paper. “You get hurt, scared, hungry—you find a phone and call this number.”

Sophia looked at the paper. “Is it yours?”

Daryl frowned.

“Your phone number,” said Sophia.

“It’s a cop,” said Daryl. “Friend of your mom’s.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You don’t have to like me,” said Daryl. “Or trust me. This is about your mom—she’s looking after you. She wants you safe. This cop’ll help you.”

“I said I don’t want it.” Sophia looked up at him. “Why don’t you give me yours?”

“My phone number?”

“You’d come, wouldn’t you?” said Sophia. “If I called you.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said roughly. “I’d come.”

“So why don’t you give me your number? If you’re so big on helping and protecting us. If you wanna ‘save’ us.”

“Rick’s a cop.”

“So?”

Daryl glanced at Tyreese, who was standing just out of earshot, then at his truck, which was down the road. Tyreese only had to stay as long as Daryl was there; he could walk away once Sophia went back inside and Daryl went back to his truck. “Call that number,” Daryl said, turning away.

“No,” said Sophia.

Stopping, Daryl turned back. Sophia was standing there in front of the door, shoulder square, her mouth a thin angry line.

“No,” Sophia said again. “You can’t just _walk away_. You can’t just leave me here!”

Daryl glanced at the door. “They hurt you? Michonne, she—”

“They’re fine. Everything is fine. See? I’m fine! Just drop me off at some nice house; everything is fine!”

“Sophia.” Daryl reached for her.

“No!” Sophia pushed his arm away, then hit him. She actually hit him, her little fist swatting his chest. “You can’t just _leave_ me here. I thought you were going to protect us! I thought you were going to—my _mom_ thought you were going to; that’s why she did it; did you know that, because you made her think—you made her think . . .”

She was clawing at him, and Daryl didn’t know what to do; he didn’t want her to hurt herself. He reached for her again, only meaning to stop her, but then her arms were around him and she was crying, and he didn’t know what to do. He’d never had anything like this happen to him before, not ever, and she was right. She was right; he’d made Carol think she was safe, and it was his fault—it was all his fault—

“Please don’t leave me,” Sophia sobbed.

Daryl put his hand in her hair.

“They arrested Mom, didn’t they?” Sophia’s tears were wet against his chest. “They put her in jail? I’m never gonna see her again.”

“You’ll see her.” Daryl didn’t know how to do it, but did it anyway—touched her face, tilted her head back to look up at him. “You’ll see her, hon. Your mom’s strong. And Rick’ll help.”

“I want _you_ to help.” Sophia sniffled.

“I will,” said Daryl, even though he didn’t know how. “I’ll help.” He wiped away one of the tears on her cheek with his thumb.

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” said Daryl. “I promise.”

*

Carol’s lawyer was named Andrea. Blonde, tough face. Daryl liked her; she talked smart. They’d met briefly the morning after Carol had been arrested; he’d seen her again after visiting. She’d asked for his phone number, so when she called and asked for a meeting, he wasn’t too surprised. 

Her office was fancy—maybe not as fancy as lawyers’ digs on TV, but she had potted plants and shit, stupid paintings. Her law degree was framed on the wall, and every bit of the office made him feel like there was probably still grime under his fingernails even though he’d showered right before he’d come.

“Thanks for being here,” Andrea said again, after shaking his hand and asking him to sit. “I’d like to talk to you about what happened, as well as what you know about Mr. Peletier,” she said, sitting down as well. “But I’d also like to get to know you. If we do end up going to trial, you’re likely to be called to testify.”

Daryl couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted less, but it was for Carol, so he didn’t say anything.

“Besides providing information about the incident, you could be an important character witness,” said Andrea. “The prosecution will try to find ways to pick apart your story, which is why I’m going to be asking personal questions as well.”

Daryl shifted in his chair.

Andrea’s brows went up. “Is that okay?”

Daryl shrugged.

She pursed her lips. “Okay,” she said, after another moment, seeming a little bit annoyed. Some people didn’t like it if he didn’t say enough, and Daryl realized it was probably a bad idea to piss her off—she was supposed to be helping Carol. “Mind if I record this?” She waved a small, sleek device at him.

“No.” She frowned at him, and Daryl added hastily, “Don’t mind.” He shifted in his chair again.

“Good,” she said, frown easing. “Let’s go ahead and get started. How did you meet Carol Peletier?”

“Girl got lost,” said Daryl. “I found her.”

Andrea nodded, writing something on the pad in front of her. Then she looked up. “Could you elaborate?”

 _Elaborate_ was something his ninth grade English teacher used to say. He could never do it—which was probably why he failed it twice. But this was for Carol, so he made himself think about it. “Came across her in the woods,” Daryl said finally. “She was yelling for her daughter, so I helped her look.”

“Why did you help her look?”

 _she was lost,_ Daryl wanted to say, just to be a smartass, but that was not the question.

Problem was, he didn’t know the answer.

Finally he shrugged again. “Dunno.”

“You have no idea why you wanted to help her?”

“Her kid was lost.” Even if it _was_ smartass, it was the truth.

“But she was a stranger you randomly met in the woods,” said Andrea.

“So?”

“Some people might’ve walked on.”

Andrea had yellow hair, pulled back from her face but cascading down in back, sorta wavy or maybe curly. Her eyes were big and blue, her mouth plump. Merle probably would’ve found her really hot. Daryl probably should’ve too.

His gaze slid away. “You didn’t hear the way she was hollering.”

“So you were concerned about her.”

Daryl shrugged.

“Were you concerned about her or not?”

“Man, I don’t know! Why’s it matter?”

Sighing, Andrea turned off the tape recorder. “I’m not trying to ask hard questions, here. I’m trying to establish the basis upon which you know Carol Peletier. Whether you were concerned about her from the start—concerned about her daughter—that’s important.”

Daryl bit his lower lip, teeth pulling at dead skin there, chewing a little. What he’d do for a smoke right about now. Jesus. “Weren’t concerned,” he said finally. “I was annoyed. I wanted her to shut up; I thought I could help her, and then I saw—I saw the bruises on her wrist and I thought maybe she needed my help. Sophia too.” He flicked his gaze back up to her. “That what you want me to say?”

“I want the truth.”

Daryl shrugged. “It’s true.”

“Good.” Andrea turned the recorder back on. 

Daryl scowled at it. “I gotta say that again?”

“No, I’m taking notes. This is just so I remember our conversation. You said you saw the bruises and you knew she needed help. Do you mean she needed help looking for Sophia?”

Daryl nodded, chewing on his cuticle, then remembered he had to speak up. Took his finger out of his mouth to say yeah, “Yeah,” then went back to chewing.

“Tell me about Rick Grimes.”

Daryl took his finger out of his mouth completely.

Andrea was writing something on her pad, but looked up at his silence. “Daryl?”

“What about him?”

“How did you meet him?”

Daryl shifted again in his chair. “What’s he got to do with it?”

Andrea gave him a strange look. “He was familiar with Carol in the events leading up to the incident. You asked him to look in on her. He was the first person you called after you found out Carol shot her husband—you don’t think he’s significant to this case?”

Daryl ground his teeth. “He arrested my brother.”

“What?”

“Rick. He arrested my brother. That’s how I met him.”

“Oh. That—that’s good to know.” Andrea scribbled something on her pad. “So you and he—you’re not friendly.”

“We’re friendly.”

“Even though he arrested your brother?”

Daryl shrugged. “Helped Carol.”

“And how did that come about?”

“He’s a cop. Isn’t helping people what he’s supposed to do?”

“How did he meet Carol?”

“When her kid was missing.” Daryl frowned. “Didn’t Carol tell you all this?”

“I’d like your version of events.”

Andrea held his eyes with her blue ones, something cool and fishy about them he didn’t like. Probably killed in court, the coldness of those eyes. She was probably a great lawyer, and she wanted his version of events.

Daryl didn’t know. Rick had said, _I need your help_ and Daryl had rolled over like a dog showing his belly. Rick had said, _come_ and Daryl had gone; Rick could say, _heel_ and Daryl would heel. Daryl had stopped asking why Rick bothered. He wasn’t about to tell this lady that something broken inside was weighing Rick down, making him take everything with Carol way too personally—in large part because that was the same thing that drew Daryl to her as well—her strength, her courage. Carol reminded Daryl of something he wanted to be, and he wanted to protect that in her.

“You met Deputy Grimes during the search for Sophia,” Andrea said finally. “Why did you keep in touch?”

Daryl shrugged. “Seemed alright. For a cop.”

“What makes you say that?”

The way he kept at it, calling to ask about Carol; the way he remembered things, like when Ed had work; the way he asked things, low and calm; the things he said, like _you did the right thing_ , and _take care of yourself_ , and _let me hear you say okay_. The way Rick touched him and the way he looked; his lean, capable form with its strong shoulders, his stupid bow-legs and tucked-in shirts and girly mouth and eyelashes; his eyes, too intense, but true.

“Dunno,” Daryl said, shrugging again.

“You have no idea what makes you trust him,” Andrea said skeptically.

Frustrated, Daryl waved a hand. “Man, what do you want me to say?”

“I’m not fishing for a particular answer,” said Andrea, sounding frustrated as well. “I just want to know how you feel about Deputy Grimes.”

“Why?”

Andrea turned off the recorder again. “This is obviously making you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Daryl said uncomfortably.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve questioned half the things I’ve asked you, and the other half you’ve answered in monosyllables.”

Daryl started chewing on his cuticle again.

Sighing, Andrea turned the tape recorder back on. “Let’s get back to Carol Peletier.”

“Good.” _I thought that was what this was about,_ Daryl almost added, but didn’t. It was an asshole thing to say, because she was right. Rick was a part of the case; he shouldn’t blame her for asking questions—and he didn’t, not really. He blamed himself for not having answers. It was stupid when lawyer-lady was trying to help.

“What exactly is your relationship with Carol Peletier?”

“Friends,” Daryl said.

“Is that all?”

Daryl moved his hand to chew on the thumb cuticle again, realized he was doing it, made himself stop. “Yeah.”

Andrea looked back through her notes. “She said she showed up at your house and stayed there for two weeks.”

Daryl nodded.

“That’s a lot to do for a friend,” Andrea pointed out.

Scowling, Daryl said, “Friends do that all the time. Crash on each other’s couch.”

“Close friends in extreme circumstances, maybe.”

“Getting beat isn’t extreme?”

“And she wasn’t crashing on your couch, was she?” asked Andrea.

Daryl shook his head. “Merle’s bedroom. That’s my brother,” he added, leaning in to point at her pad, make sure she got it down.

“You never slept with her?”

“What?” Daryl recoiled. “No.”

“Did you want to?”

“No!” 

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not?”

“You don’t find Carol Peletier attractive?”

“She’s _married.”_

Andrea wrote something on her pad. “Are you religious?”

Daryl shook his head again.

“Just against adultery on principle?”

Daryl shrugged.

“If Carol was fooling around with someone else, would you have helped her?”

“She weren’t.”

“Say, with Deputy Grimes?”

Daryl looked at her in disgust. “He’s married too. Got a kid.”

Andrea wrote some more on her pad. “So, you don’t think of someone who’s married with a child as a viable partner?”

“What the hell, man?”

“You’ve been awfully generous to Carol,” said Andrea. “Put her up at a moment’s notice, come whenever she calls, visit her in lockup, visit her kid. Some would assume such a relationship implies more than friendship.”

Daryl struggled to get his breathing under control. It was coming too fast, for some reason. “I ain’t,” he heard himself say.

“You aren’t what?”

Daryl wasn’t even sure. “I ain’t—with Carol. I’m not.”

“Right,” said Andrea. “But do you want to be?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why does everyone think I gotta be—can’t a guy help out a lady? What, that not allowed?” 

“It’s a simple question,” said Andrea.

“Simple answer,” said Daryl. “Why do I gotta wanna fuck her? Is it so I seem—is that more normal; is that what I gotta wanna do?”

“No,” Andrea said calmly. “You don’t. Sit down, please.”

Daryl hadn’t realized he’d stood. He glanced at the chair, then back at Andrea. 

“I’m not trying to set you up, pry into your private life.” Andrea clicked off the recorder again. “I’m asking about this because it’s important to the case. If you were having a romantic or sexual relationship with Carol, you have motive for helping her take her spouse out of the picture. Do you see what I mean?”

Tentatively, Daryl sat down on the edge of the chair.

“If she wanted a relationship with you, if you gave her any indication that she could have one, that gives her a motive beyond self-protection to shoot her husband. I understand if you weren’t sleeping together. I understand if neither of you wanted to. I understand caring about someone, wanting to help a friend, seeing someone in need and being there for them because that’s the kind of person you are. But if this goes to trial, that’s not the story the prosecution is going to tell. Do you understand that?”

Her words were matter-of-fact—not completely dispassionate, but more forceful and logical than gentle, like someone who knew what she was talking about. She might not be exactly warm, but she was smart. Daryl nodded.

“Look,” Andrea said. “I know these questions are personal. And I know I seem like a dick for asking them.”

Daryl shifted in his chair. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t a dick, but he kinda thought she was a dick too much to say it.

“But these are the kinds of things the prosecution would try to pin on you, and I need to find out where you stand to come up with a reasonable defense, okay?”

Daryl nodded.

“Okay, let’s get back to it.” She turned the recorder back on. “You weren’t in a romantic or sexual relationship with Carol Peletier, and you didn’t want to be. Can you tell me why not?”

Daryl shook his head. “Just wasn’t.”

“Because she was married?”

Daryl didn’t know what to say, so he decided to nod.

“And did you find her attractive? Or does her being married make her unattractive to you?”

“She’s attractive.”

“But you weren’t attracted to her.”

Daryl gave a minute shake of his head.

“Okay,” Andrea said again. She flipped through her notes. “This is good. You weren’t physically attracted to her; she’s married. That should work for now, though we’ll have to flesh it out later. Let’s talk about why you did help her. Was there anything specific that made you feel friendly toward her?”

Sitting still just to talk like this was driving him crazy, but Daryl tried to think, hand tapping on his thigh. “She’s brave,” he said finally.

“What makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “Husband beating on her, she still smiles. Good mom. Best mom I’ve ever seen. She keeps Sophia safe, and provides. They get pizza. Makes her feel normal.”

“Does she remind you of your own mom?”

Daryl flinched.

There was a long pause, filled only with Andrea scribbling on her pad. 

This was worse than visiting a shrink.

“Let’s talk about Edward Peletier,” Andrea said.

“What about him?” Daryl asked suspiciously.

“Ever met anyone like him before?”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, but Andrea held his gaze, sharp and clear. 

“You know what I’m asking,” she said.

He knew what she was asking. She’d seen too much with just that one reaction to the question about his mom, but he didn’t want to admit he knew; he didn’t want to know; he didn’t want to think about it. “What, I ever meet someone fat and dumb before?” Daryl said savagely. “I ever met a drunk redneck?”

“Have you ever encountered a man who beats his wife before,” Andrea said calmly.

Daryl’s eyes narrowed further.

A long moment passed.

Then another.

Andrea pursed her lips. “Is your father still alive, Mister Dixon?” she asked, and Daryl pushed back his chair.

It clattered as he stood.

Lips still pressed together shrewdly, Andrea looked up at him.

“You from Florida?” At Andrea’s startled glance, he nodded up at her degree. “School,” he explained.

“Oh.” Andrea glanced up at it. “Yeah. Tampa.”

Daryl walked a bit, trying to breathe. “Why you up here?”

Andrea gave him a strange look, but then seemed to concede, nodding her head. “I’d been thinking about changing specialties for a while. Went on a roadtrip with my sister, figured out what I wanted to do. Too many lawyers specializing in domestic abuse in Tampa.” She shrugged. “So I came here.”

She’s said some other things, but Daryl really only heard two words.

_Domestic abuse._

“You’re pacing,” Andrea pointed out.

“I gotta smoke,” he said.

Andrea stood up slowly. “We’ll talk when you get back.”

Daryl looked at her, her pretty blonde hair, her narrow, professional skirt, sleek suit and high cheekbones. She didn’t look nice at all, but she looked strong. Like someone who would put up a fight. Like someone who could save you—not with muscles and a motorcycle. With determination and intelligence and know-how; she looked like someone who would never stop.

“Yeah,” said Daryl, turning away. “Okay.”


	8. Chapter 8

After the conversation with Andrea, Daryl called Jake.

Daryl had called him twice before in the whole time he’d known him. The first time he’d been drunk off his ass and determined to break up with him. Jake had eventually come over and Daryl had sucked his cock, snorted three lines of coke, then let himself be fucked unconscious, over and over again. 

The other time he’d called him, Jake had made fun of him for calling. Daryl hadn’t called him again. 

But now he needed . . . he didn’t know what he needed. He just wanted something; he wanted something and it wasn’t even sex. It was that feeling after sex, that feeling of being nothing. He wanted to be hollowed out and empty, nothing but a body. He liked being sweaty and used up, like having run a mile, except someone did it to you instead of you doing it, wearing out and exhausting you without you even getting to choose, without you being a person who could have chosen otherwise.

He liked smoking afterward, the sharp bite of nicotine, the way no single thought could penetrate his head. 

“Thought I told you not to call me,” Jake said, when he picked up the phone.

Daryl shifted his weight, not knowing what to say.

“Well, what do you want?”

Daryl swallowed around his thick tongue. “Wanna come over?”

Jake laughed, then cut off abruptly. “Oh, wait. You’re serious?”

Humiliation poured over Daryl in a hot wave.

“You called me— _on the phone_ —to ask if I’d come over?”

Daryl wanted to hang up. This is the way Jake had acted last time he’d called—that was over a year ago now—and he didn’t need this just for a fuck. He didn’t.

But Daryl didn’t hang up. He didn’t know where else he could get one.

“Miss me, do you baby?”

Shit. Just that stupid name and Daryl was already getting hard. 

He needed it _so_ bad.

“I get it,” Jake purred. “You need a little something.”

Daryl reached down to adjust himself, trying to alleviate the pressure.

“You’re always ready for it, aren’t you, precious?”

Goddammit.

“You always want cock in that ass.” 

Jake’s voice had dropped into a kind of savage whisper, and Daryl wondered whether it was because he was around other people. Daryl had always just assumed Jake called him when he was alone, but this time he had called Jake; Jake hadn’t been ready for it—maybe he was talking about this in a roomful of people.

Daryl’s face flamed with embarrassment as his cock grew even harder.

“Slutty ass needs something to fill it up, and what, you just call me out of the blue?” Daryl could hear Jake lick his lips. “Don’t you think you’re kind of . . . presuming?” A pause. “But then you’ve got nowhere else to get it, have you?”

Daryl swallowed.

“Poor baby,” Jake crooned. “Poor sweetheart. You’ve got no one to fill up that fuck-hungry hole except me, because you can’t take care of yourself, can you? Never could make it on your own. Always need someone, don’t you? Don’t you think it’s kind of pathetic to expect me to drop everything and come running?”

The worst of it was, Daryl was still hard. If Jake just kept talking like that, Daryl could probably get off on it. 

“What if I’m busy? You do know I’ve got more important things to take care of, right?”

Daryl knew he was saying it for a power trip, knew Jake got off on humiliating him, but the thing of it was—he was right. It _wasn’t_ like he should have to drop everything just because Daryl felt the sudden urge to get his brains fucked out. And Daryl shouldn’t even feel that way anyway; what kind of needy bitch—

“But you don’t care about that, do you,” said Jake. “Because you’re a needy bitch. C’mon,” he went on, when Daryl didn’t say anything. “Say it for me. Tell me what a needy bitch you are.”

Bastard.

“No,” said Jake. “Tell me how needy that little asshole is. Tell me how it’s just like a girly little pussy—needy, clinging, dreaming of big cock, isn’t it? Is that what you are, just a clingy, starving pussy?”

“Forget it.”

“So, am I wrong? That little fuck-hole _isn’t_ hungry for cock?”

“Fuck off.”

A pause. “I’ll talk you off if you tell me what a bitch you are.”

“I said—”

“Come on, honey. I can’t just drop everything at your beck and call; you know I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

“But sweetheart, I don’t wanna leave that little cunt of yours so lonely. I can make it good for you, darlin’, tell you how to stroke yourself, get your fingers wet inside that filthy hole; I’ll talk you through it all. Fuck you so good, honey, just like you need. You want that, don’t you, baby?”

Daryl hesitated.

“So good, precious. I’ll tell you exactly what to do,” said Jake. “You’ll do what I say; I’ll make you feel so good; you’ll be so good.” A pause. “Just tell me you’re a bitch for it.”

Daryl knew he was breathing hard, but when he tried to stop, he only started breathing harder.

“Come on, baby. It’s not difficult. Just admit you’ve got a needy pussy. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Daryl grunted.

“You have to say it, honey. Come on and say it.”

Daryl wanted it. He wanted it so bad, and a part of him kept thinking it just didn’t matter. It just didn’t matter, and anyway he _was_ a slut; he was a little bitch. It wouldn’t matter to admit it just to get what he needed; he’d just be using Jake as Jake was using him. Daryl would just be using him; they could just use each other—

“No,” was all Daryl could say.

A long pause. “I’ll come over.”

Daryl’s dick jumped.

“I’ll come over and bend you over, fuck you so hard you can’t see. Want that?”

Shit.

“How about I hold you down, crush those little balls of yours, get that filthy ass black and blue with my belt, show you what a needy little bitch you are? You love that, don’t you; when I show you you’re nothing but a nasty slut?”

Christ, this was disgusting; Daryl was going to throw up; he was going to come.

“Say you’re my bitch.”

“No,” Daryl said, rather too loudly.

“Fine,” said Jake. “But I’m bringing X.”

Daryl didn’t want to get high, but he knew Jake would stick to this one, and it didn’t matter. He’d do anything not to think about that conversation with Andrea, not to think about anything at all.

“Okay,” said Daryl.

*

Rick called the next day.

Jake hadn’t stayed, and Daryl had spent the day recovering. By evening he was just starting to feel human again. “Hey,” he said when he picked up the phone.

“Hey,” said Rick. “How are you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Daryl, which wasn’t the answer to that question but fuck it. “What’s up?”

“I just got through talking to Ms. Harrison, Carol’s lawyer.”

Daryl went tense.

“She wanted to know about what happened, how I knew Carol, that sorta thing. You talked to her yet?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, relaxing.

“Oh. You alright?”

Daryl made a face, glad for once he wasn’t anywhere near Rick so Rick couldn’t see. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno; she just got . . . personal. I didn’t even get questioned like that last time I had to testify in court.”

“Mm.” 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Daryl snapped. Dammit.

But Rick just laughed, low and sorta husky. “Yeah, me neither.”

Daryl started chewing on his cuticle again, wishing he knew what to say to keep Rick talking without having to talk about Andrea or any of the things she’d made him think about or say.

Instead, Rick was the one to talk. “Wanna get a drink with me?”

Daryl took his finger out of his mouth.

“Shoot some pool?” Rick went on.

Could mean he wanted to talk about Andrea, find out what she’d asked Daryl, or discuss what she’d asked him. Daryl didn’t know how to ask if that was what he wanted, and even if Rick said yes, Daryl wasn’t sure he could say no. Words seemed to be failing him.

“We could just go to that place we went to last time,” Rick said.

“When?” Daryl hated how rough his voice sounded, like it’d barely been used.

“Tonight. Unless you got plans,” Rick said.

Daryl had used his voice. He’d cried out when Jake had fucked him. He’d tried not to, but he always did eventually, torn out of him in a way that felt like it ripped his throat, even when he wasn’t loud. Jesus, Jake had just fucked him last night and now he was talking to Rick. Shame was so bright inside it made his skin feel tight.

Christ. Rick.

Daryl’s heart was beating hard enough that he wondered whether Rick could actually hear it, and it’d been nearly a minute. A whole minute and he hadn’t said anything, and Rick hadn’t said anything—just sitting there, waiting; what if he wasn’t actually there; what if the call had been dropped—

“Rick?”

“Yeah,” said Rick, as though there hadn’t been a pause.

“I ain’t got plans.”

A soft laugh. “You sure about that?”

“Nah, I was just . . . checking my calendar.”

The fact that Rick laughed again at that, the way Daryl had meant him to, made Daryl’s stomach flip. “Okay,” said Rick. “See you over there.”

“Hey,” said Daryl.

“Yeah?”

“If I bring you something—could you get it to Carol? Don’t fit in the mail.”

“Will it fit in my car?” Rick sounded amused.

“I don’t mean it’s big; you just can’t send it. I promise it ain’t contraband or anything.”

“I’ll see if I can,” said Rick.

*

“A flower?” said Rick, when he got to the bar.

Daryl was already sitting there with a drink, wearing his long-sleeve thermal. “It’s a Cherokee Rose.”

Rick ordered a whiskey neat, just like before, then slid onto the stool next to Daryl’s. “What’s a Cherokee Rose?”

“Get to know your flowers.”

Rick smiled, just like Daryl had meant him to all over again, and Daryl had to look away. Rick’s beard had grown out even more, but something about it made him look a little rough and tumble, like someone who could take you in a fight, like someone who could—shit.

Daryl downed his liquor in one go. His ass was still aching from what Jake had done to it.

“I can get it to her,” Rick said, taking the can with the flower in it Daryl had put up on the bar. “Is the beer can important?”

Daryl almost chuckled. “No.”

“I heard you saw Sophia.” Rick’s whiskey came and he took a sip before turning to Daryl again. “How’s she doing?”

“Doesn’t like horses.”

“I thought everyone liked horses.”

“She doesn’t, apparently.”

Rick drank the rest of his whiskey, signaled to the bartender for another, then placed his empty glass upside-down on the bar. “Carl doesn’t like basketball.”

Daryl made a face. “Basketball?”

“What’s wrong with basketball? I was on the team in high school.”

“You? Pfft.”

Rick smiled. “What?”

Daryl shrugged. “I dunno. I just . . . figured it’d be baseball.”

Rick’s whiskey came, but he didn’t even look at it, eyes intent on Daryl. “Why?”

“Dunno.” Daryl’s eyes slid away. He signaled to the bartender for another glass. “Apple pie,” he said finally.

“I’m not apple pie.”

Daryl’s gaze slid back.

Rick just smiled. “Okay, so I’m a little apple pie. Not all apple pie, though.”

“Just enough so that when your kid don’t like your sport you get broken up about it.” The bartender brought Daryl a glass, and Daryl nodded to him.

“I’m his dad,” said Rick. “We’re supposed to bond.”

Daryl snorted, then drank his whiskey.

Rick drank down his own whiskey, turned over the glass, then signaled for two more. They were gonna get completely wasted at this rate. “Anyway,” said Rick, “you’re the one crying over Sophia not liking ponies. At least I know what to expect with a daughter.”

Daryl looked at him quickly. “You planning on having one?”

“We’re having one. Soon.” Rick drank the entire glass in one go.

His adam’s apple moved against the long line of his throat, and Daryl realized that he liked him. He didn’t just think the guy looked good, and it wasn’t just that he was a good person who said things like, _I trust you_ all the time. Daryl _liked_ him; he liked spending time with him and wanted to spend time with him and Jesus Christ, it was so pathetic. This was so fucking pathetic.

“How’s your wife?” Daryl heard himself say, more harshly than he’d intended.

Rick turned his glass over, set it down. Pushed the second whiskey he’d gotten over toward Daryl.

“You said she was gonna have a baby,” Daryl added—some kind of asinine explanation for why he was asking, even though a baby was not the reason at all.

“I’m not married.”

Daryl’s gaze snapped to the gold ring around Rick’s finger.

“I know.” Rick twisted the ring but didn’t take it off.

Daryl waited.

Clapping a hand on Daryl’s back, Rick stood up, standing close enough that Daryl caught the dizzying scent of soap and aftershave. “Let’s shoot some pool,” Rick said, the warmth of his hand sliding away—a careless, casual gesture as he walked over toward the table. 

Daryl threw back the whiskey, then looked at the glass. He needed five or six more of them. Instead he slid off the stool and followed Rick.

*

Daryl saw some combination of Andrea, Carol, Sophia and Rick every week in the eight weeks leading up to Carol’s trial.

Andrea worked with him on his testimony, coaching him on what to say and how to say it. She was working with Rick too; Daryl knew because almost every time Rick called and asked to go out for a drink, he mentioned having met with Andrea. Daryl guessed Rick liked meeting with her about as much as Daryl did.

Something about Carol’s case had hit close to home for Rick, maybe something to do with his wife, why he wasn’t married anymore. Maybe Andrea made him talk about it, but whenever Daryl and Rick met up, Rick didn’t talk about what he’d talked to Andrea about. Mostly they just drank and shot pool, didn’t talk about anything much. Daryl didn’t even know why Rick wanted to meet up like that, but figured if Rick’s wife had left him, he maybe wanted company. Spending time with someone without any kind of obligations attached was relaxing in a way Daryl hadn’t realized, despite the fact that Rick made his insides twist in knots. Being near someone who wanted to talk about Carol and cared what happened to her was nice, too.

Jake wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it even had he known Carol. He and Daryl didn’t talk about anything, really. Seeing him was nice in a different way—it didn’t tie him into knots at all, and everything about Carol’s upcoming trial was so stressful that the release was nice. Daryl had actually called him again after another difficult meeting with Andrea.

“Jesus Christ, you’re clingy,” Jake had said, sounding irritated.

Daryl had waited, because sometimes insulting him got Jake hot enough that he did what Daryl wanted anyway.

“I do have a life, you know,” said Jake. “Stop being so needy.”

He’d hung up, and Daryl had taken to the road. Stayed out long enough to kill a few things, but after the weekend was over he came back. Had to put in his hours at the garage, and Sunday was his day to visit Carol.

She was doing well, putting on a brave face as usual, but it was still disconcerting above the prison orange. Mostly she just wanted to talk about Sophia.

“She don’t like horses,” Daryl told her.

Carol scowled. “She say that?” Daryl nodded, and Carol rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s bull. Of course she likes horses. Everyone likes horses.”

“That’s what Rick said.”

Carol looked surprised. “You told Rick?”

Daryl shrugged. “His son don’t like basketball.”

“You’re a big scruffy pile of non-sequitur. You know that?”

“Ain’t scruffy.”

Carol snorted.

It was always funny when she did that, her and her delicate nose and angelic mouth. She made you think she was just a sweet little thing, but she was all salt. Daryl almost smiled. “What does she like?” he asked, after a long moment.

Carol shook her head. “Horses.”

“Said she don’t.”

“Well, she’s _lying_. Wants to be more mature. Thinks horses are kids’ stuff.”

“What did you like?” Daryl said. “When you were that age.”

Carol snorted again. “I was an idiot.” Daryl waited, and Carol rolled her eyes. “J.D. Salinger. That sort of thing.”

Daryl didn’t know who that was.

“I was impressionable.” Carol smirked at him. “What did you like?”

Daryl shrugged.

“Informative as usual,” said Carol. “She likes horses. Don’t let her tell you otherwise.”

“And vampires.”

Carol rolled her eyes again. “When’s she gonna get through that phase? I’ll be grateful.”

“I thought you liked them too.”

“Me? Who do you think I am? I like Harlequin just as much as the next person,” said Carol, “but if you’re talking movies, I like westerns.”

“John Wayne?”

“I’m not _that_ old. Clint Eastwood.”

“He’s old.”

“Now he is, I suppose. Not some spry young thing like you.”

Daryl was the one who snorted now. “I’m just as old as you.”

Carol sighed. “I thought I could do better for her. You know? You’d think at my age, I’d have something to show for it.”

She had Sophia, and she’d shot Ed, which was more than he had done. He’d never told her he was proud of her for that—even if it had landed her in jail. “You got something to show for it,” Daryl said.

Carol looked at him sadly. “Do we?”

Daryl looked at his hands, one of the only parts of him still unscarred. “You do,” he said.

*

Sophia didn’t talk much when Daryl visited her. When she did, she wasn’t the sweet little thing he thought he’d known. He liked her all the more for it—he knew what she was, what she was going through, even if his ma never shot his pop. He was never a sweet little thing either.

“Mom says you hunt,” Sophia said, out of the blue one day.

They were at the Starbucks again, Tyreese in his corner, hot chocolate on the table in front of them. 

Sophia went on, “She said you were hunting when I—got lost.”

Daryl gave her a look.

Sophia’s chin jutted out. “What if you taught me how?”

“No,” said Daryl.

“Why not?”

“Why do you want to?”

“What if I have to defend myself?”

Daryl’s chest went tight, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Her chin went out farther. “I could do it,” she said.

“Against your dad?” he said, knowing that saying it made him an asshole, saying it partly to be an asshole.

“Against anyone.” Her look was so fierce, and for the first time he really thought she looked like Carol. “Against anyone who wants to hurt me or anyone I love or—or dogs. People shouldn’t hurt dogs.”

“What about horses?”

Sophia scowled.

Daryl coolly sipped his chocolate. “You think people should hurt horses?”

“ _Daryl_ ,” she said, and it made him stop teasing her, because she said it just like a teenager would to a parent or big brother—someone she was comfortable enough to be annoyed with.

His heart hurt. Daryl took another sip of chocolate. “Okay,” he said, setting it down.

“Really?” Sophia perked up. “You’ll teach me how to hunt?”

“I’ll ask your mom.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask her.”

“She’s your mom.”

“She’s in jail; what can she do?”

Daryl looked at her.

“Stop,” said Sophia.

“Ain’t doing anything.”

“I said _stop_.”

“She loves you,” said Daryl. “Wants to take care of you.”

“I want to take care of her.”

“Then she should let you.” Daryl took another sip of his chocolate while Sophia blinked at him.

“Really?”

She was really excited now, and Daryl kept holding onto the chocolate, wishing he could smoke, wishing he could do something to calm down the way he felt when he could make her smile.

“Can I use a crossbow?” she said in a rush. “Mom said you had a crossbow.”

“Nah.” Daryl took another sip. “Slingshot.”

Sophia deflated. “A _slingshot_?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Sophia rolled her eyes again. “That’s like, Dennis the Menace or something.”

“Hm.”

“ _Daryl_.”

She wasn’t getting him again. “Drink your chocolate,” he told her.

*

One of the nights Daryl and Rick met at the bar, Rick confided that he’d looked into Andrea’s list of witnesses. “I probably shouldn’t have,” he’d added.

Daryl frowned. “It ain’t illegal.”

“No, ‘course not. Just—she can do her job. I know she can do her job.”

“But you take it personal.”

Rick looked away. “Hershel Greene was on there.”

Daryl had to think for a moment. “The farmer? From the night Sophia got lost?”

“Yeah. That night.” Rick tossed back his whiskey.

Daryl signaled for another glass for them both. Not that he was trying to get Rick sloshed or anything, just Rick seemed like maybe he needed it. His voice sounded husky, like something inside him was raw.

The refills came and Rick took a sip. “That was the night Lori asked me for the divorce.”

The way he said it made Daryl feel like he was the first person Rick had ever told that to, which made him worry a little, like maybe Rick didn’t really want to be revealing any of this. But when Daryl scanned his face, Rick had this intense, determined look—the way he’d gotten when they’d searched for Sophia and when he’d arrested Carol. Rick knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to tell someone. For some reason, the person he wanted to tell was Daryl.

“I told her we could make it work,” Rick went on. “I thought we could—she was pregnant. And Carl needs us. Then I get this call about this missing girl,” Rick said. “I didn’t want to lose her.” 

All Daryl could do was watch Rick’s hand as he brought the glass up to his lips, the ring still on Rick’s finger, burnished gold.

“We found Sophia,” Rick said as he sipped the whiskey. “I lost her anyway.” 

“Sorry,” Daryl said.

“Yeah.” Rick tapped the glass for another. “Andrea wants me to talk about it in my testimony. Thanks,” he told the bartender as his glass was refilled. “She says the prosecution will make a big deal of how involved I was with Carol, especially since I didn’t arrest Ed.”

“Arrest him and he’d’ve gone right back to her, worse than before.”

“I know.” The liquor had eased the scratches out of Rick’s voice some, making it thicker, like honey, the drawl slightly longer. “Andrea knows too. Says I have to talk about it anyway.” Setting down the glass, he went on, “We tried. After she asked for the divorce. We tried to make it work just like I said.”

Daryl watched as Rick took another sip, waiting.

“It didn’t,” was all Rick said.

Waiting again, Daryl didn’t know whether he should ask follow-up questions. This shit was so fucking sad, partly because _Rick_ was so fucking sad. That he was angry underneath was a possibility, Daryl guessed, but it was like he’d decided he wasn’t gonna be angry. Just sad. As someone who typically reacted to sorrow with chaos, Daryl felt really fucking out of his element.

So they drank. Rick quiet and steady, Daryl maybe a little more than he should. Rick didn’t say anything more—didn’t appear to want to, and, _Man, that sucks,_ seemed such an inappropriate thing to say that Daryl was likewise rendered mute.

When Rick finally spoke, he changed the subject entirely. “I talked to Hershel that night,” he said. “He’d seen the bruises on Carol’s wrist. Said he was concerned.”

Daryl glanced at him, feeling as though something had suddenly been snatched away. “You give Carol his number too?”

“No.”

 _You’re the one who can help_ , Rick had said, or something like it. 

“He didn’t want to get involved,” said Rick. “He just wanted me to take care of it.”

“Involved now,” Daryl pointed out.

“Sure. When he gets his subpoena.” Rick downed his current glass of whiskey. “You were the only one that night who seemed to want to do anything actually useful.”

Daryl looked away.

Here they were again, Rick saying shit like that. Maybe he got worse when he got drunk— _you’re so good, you’re so helpful, doing a good job_. Christ.

Daryl’s heart was beating hard, but Rick changed the subject again—mercifully, this time. “Know anyone named Glenn Rhee?”

Catching up took a moment. “He on the lawyer’s list too?”

Rick nodded. “Haven’t been able to track him down. Lot of Rhee’s out there.”

Daryl threw his own whiskey back. “I’ll get that one,” he said.

Rick gave him one of his strange looks. “Okay,” was all he said.

They drank in silence for another half an hour.

*

Daryl called for pizza the next night.

When the knock came, Daryl opened the door. Boy opened his mouth, and Daryl said, “You talked to a lawyer named Andrea Harrison?”

Glenn shut his mouth. “Um. Yes?”

“What did you say?”

“I thought I’d been here before.” Glenn glanced down at the boxes in his hand. “You don’t want pizza, do you?”

“What did you say?”

“You still have to pay.”

Daryl took out a twenty, which was a pretty generous tip. He held onto it, knowing it was a dick move, but then again he’d never been too concerned about that.

“Oh!” Glenn took a step back. “You don’t have to pay me for information. I mean, I don’t take bribes.”

Fucker’d be annoying if he weren’t half so cute, and Daryl hated that that was where his brain went.

“Look.” Glenn straightened his shoulders. “I don’t care what you say, or whether you have a hatchet or a machete in there, or—whatever.” His nod into the trailer behind Daryl in the doorway almost made Daryl want to turn around and look. “Doesn’t change the fact that woman—Carol—she was beat up every time she answered the door. Are you a friend of her husband’s?”

Snorting, Daryl said, “No.”

“You sure about that? ‘Cause you sure act like an asshole.”

Daryl relaxed. “So you’re saying he was beating her.”

“No. I’ll say she was beat up, because that was what she was.” Glenn looked him over. “Was it you?”

“What?”

“Were you hitting her?”

“No! You said it was her old man.”

“Maybe it was her boyfriend.”

“Man, why’s everyone do that?” Daryl demanded.

“Do what?”

 _Accuse us of fucking_ , Daryl wanted to say, but he knew why everyone did it, and he thought if he brought it up it’d give too much away. “I ain’t her boyfriend,” was all he said.

Still holding the pizza box, Glenn frowned at him. “Then what’s it to you?”

Daryl looked him over. “Nothing.”

“You fake-ordered pizza just for nothing?”

Daryl shrugged.

Glenn’s frown deepened. “What’s this about?”

“Wanted to make sure you were on our side.”

“’Our’?”

“Carol. Little girl.” Daryl crossed his arms over his chest. “We got a cop, too.”

Glenn looked at him suspiciously. “With pizza bribe money?”

“Shit, kid.” Daryl’s arms dropped. “I ain’t trying to bribe you.”

“Then what are you trying to do?” Glenn’s face changed again—awful expressive, that one. “What did Carol do, anyway?”

Daryl’s eyes assessed him again, waiting for Glenn’s reaction. “Shot her old man.”

“Oh.” Glenn took a moment to process. “Wait, is he dead?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Glenn said again. “Good. I guess. I mean, not good that he got shot . . .” Glenn processed some more. “Well, I guess it’s kinda good he got shot?”

“Better than the alternative.”

“What alternative?”

“Him shooting her.”

“Was he going to?”

“Could’ve.”

Glenn’s look of surprise changed to thoughtfulness. “I guess he could’ve.” After another moment, he looked up. “You’re really just looking out for her?”

Daryl shrugged. 

“And she’s not your girlfriend.” He must’ve seen annoyance in Daryl’s gaze, because he opened his hands as much as he could around the pizza box, as though to hold them up in defense. “Hey, I get it. I’ve got sisters, man. Who knows what I’d do if anyone treated them like that.”

Daryl relaxed again.

“And this lawyer,” Glenn went on, “is she good?”

“Dunno.”

Glenn stood there for a moment. “Sooo,” he said finally. “Did you actually want this pizza, or not?”

“You can take it,” Daryl said, holding out the twenty.

Glenn hesitated. “No, I can’t; you’re paying for it.”

Daryl held his eyes for a long moment. The kid had said he thought Daryl was gonna kill him with a machete, and he’d stood there on the stoop yapping at him anyway. Daryl would’ve never even thought twice about him had it not been for Carol, no matter how cute he was. That wasn’t what caught Daryl’s notice now: it was the bravery, the stubbornness.

And the fact the kid was obviously hungry. Daryl jerked his head towards the interior of the trailer. “C’mon.”

“Um. I’m not really supposed to . . .”

“You wanna eat it?”

“No?” said Glenn. “I mean, not _that_ badly.”

Daryl snorted. “I ain’t got a machete. Not close to hand, anyway.” He turned around, walking into the interior of the trailer, toward the table.

“You know,” Glenn called after him. “Whenever I imagined this in my dreams it was always a beautiful woman.”

“You want pizza or not?” Daryl called back, scrounging up some napkins. If the kid was gonna help Carol, least he could do was have dinner.

“The weird part is,” said Glenn, stepping into the trailer, “this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened to me on the job.”

Daryl tossed him a glance, just enough to make the kid think he was keeping up some end of the conversation, no matter how minimal.

“There was this thing with these raccoons,” said Glenn. 

They had pizza. 

It was only a little weird.


	9. Chapter 9

On the day of Carol’s trial Daryl combed his hair, which was something he didn’t do regularly, and wore new shoes. His shirt and pants were new too; he hadn’t had enough money for a suit that fit.

Andrea had talked him through the way it would work again and again. Prosecution went first, then she had other witnesses—one of Sophia’s teachers, two neighbors, a mom of one of Sophia’s friends, a doctor, Hershel Greene, Rick, Glenn. Daryl had to sit outside the courtroom until they called him, but for most of it Rick and Glenn were there, so that was okay. Glenn had these dumb games on his phone he kept trying to explain. At one point Glenn was leaning in to look at his screen and Rick just tossed Daryl this look, this, _you believe this kid_ look. Derek allowed himself a little smirk. “Show Rick the Halloween one,” said Daryl. “He’s real interested.”

“Did you want to see?” Glenn asked, turning toward Rick.

Rick shot a glare off at Daryl, then looked at the phone Glenn was offering and said in a perfectly friendly way, “Sure, I wanna see.”

Daryl laughed to himself, and Rick learned to play Angry Birds.

“My son’s always playing this,” said Rick, holding Glenn’s phone in a way that signaled his discomfort with the little figures on the screen.

“Really?” said Glenn. “You never learned how?”

“He always has my phone,” said Rick. “I never get to use it.”

Glenn explained the game while Rick asked questions. He was getting into it, pulling out his own phone, then pointing to things on Glenn’s screen. Glenn kept leaning over to look at Rick’s, explaining how the scoring worked, and Rick listened attentively, his fingers moving hesitantly over the screen. 

Rick’s questions were so dumb. Here was this awkward dad, fumbling with this stupid bird-thing just because his kid might like it, treating this like it was relevant and interesting just because Glenn was all fired up about it. They were probably trying to distract themselves from the trial going on inside, and Daryl would never have admitted it, but it was a pretty good distraction. 

Rick was a huge dork.

Daryl wanted Rick to fuck his brains out.

He’d been watching Rick and Glenn at first, but for at least the past ten minutes he’d been watching Rick—Rick’s hands on the phone. Rick’s uniform, neatly pressed, shirt tucked in at the waist, meeting belt and gun. Rick’s face, freshly shaven for Carol’s trial, eyes amused and kind and lips softer than ever. Rick’s neck and his slicked back hair and his long thighs and his blue eyes and his strong wrists, his jaw, the touch of a curl near his collar, his wedding ring, his goddamn fucking ears.

Realization flashed through Daryl in a hot wave. He’d known Rick was trouble but he’d managed to avoid this, this specific thought, this gut-wrenching tug of want that rolled through him fast and hard. 

Something was wrong with him. He was at Carol’s trial, Rick was in love with his ex-wife, Rick was straight, Daryl had a boyfriend, Daryl was a pervert, and why was it Rick being a goddamn dad and smiling at another guy and wearing a motherfucking cop uniform that made it hit? Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he stop?

“Gonna go for a smoke,” Daryl said abruptly.

Rick looked over, then stood up. “I’ll come too.”

Daryl hated him for that and was glad for the company anyway.

One of the policeman outside the courtroom came along with them, and only once they got outside did Daryl reach toward the pocket of his new pants and realize he hadn’t brought cigarettes. He was still trying to quit, and anyway he’d assumed he couldn’t smoke them at Carol’s trial.

“It’s gonna be alright,” said Rick, as though knowing Daryl hadn’t come out here for a smoke in the first place. He thought Daryl was worried about Carol, and that was true; he was. Maybe that was what got Daryl so jumbled up in the first place. Realizing that didn’t make Daryl feel any better.

Meanwhile, Rick just looked so steady and so certain. “How do you know?” Daryl finally asked.

Rick reached out, and Daryl had learned to expect when Rick might do that so he didn’t flinch. Rick’s strong hand through the fabric of Daryl’s shirt was as warm and steady as his gaze. “I just know,” he said.

*

Daryl didn’t get called to the witness stand until the fourth day.

By that time, Glenn and Rick had already been called. Glenn had had to go back to work, but Rick was staying to watch the rest of the trial. He was probably sitting on one of the benches to either side, but Daryl didn’t look as he walked toward the stand. The jury was probably somewhere too, but Daryl couldn’t see them either. He could see only Carol—the back of her head, her short soft hair, her slender shoulders, erect with her head held high. For some reason she had on a pink sweater that didn’t suit her at all.

Once Daryl had taken the oath on the Bible and taken a seat in the stand, Andrea was there. She was dressed smartly in a khaki suit, pressed blue shirt, neat and perfect in every way. He thought she looked just like a shark was supposed to look, and it made him feel better.

“Mr. Dixon,” she said, after the preliminaries were over, “do you know the defendant?”

Daryl nodded, and Andrea’s mouth went a little tight.

“A verbal reply is required,” said the judge.

Daryl glanced up at him—an old guy with salt and pepper hair. Judge Menard, Andrea had said.

“Yes,” Daryl said quickly.

“How did you meet?”

Daryl related the account of the day Sophia went missing, prodded along by Andrea when his answers weren’t thorough enough. The other lawyer objected a few times, though never for reasons Daryl could make out, as the story was straightforward enough. His name was Loomis, something like that—high brow and sharp nose, thin lips. He was good-looking and suave, setting Daryl on edge instantly.

“Did you and Carol remain in contact after that?” Andrea asked, once they’d thoroughly covered the events of Sophia’s rescue.

Daryl’s gaze snapped back to Andrea. Nervously, he licked his lips. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Thought she wasn’t safe.” They’d agreed on that answer.

“Why?”

“Bruises on her wrist,” Daryl said. “Later, she called my number—”

“How did she get your number?”

Realizing he’d skipped ahead somehow, Daryl resisted bringing his finger to his mouth. “R—Deputy Grimes gave it to her.”

“Why?”

“Thought she wasn’t safe either.”

“Why?”

Daryl’s eyes darted over to Carol. She had a flower-dress on under the pink sweater, looking like a housewife when he’d never thought of her that way before. Making himself look back at Andrea, he said, “Because Ed was beating her.”

“Ed?” said Andrea. “Her husband?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you know?”

“Bruises on her wrist,” Daryl said again. “And she told me. Later on.”

“When?”

Daryl told the story of his relationship with Carol—the first phone call, when he’d picked them up at the gas station and they’d stayed in his trailer, followed by the series of phone calls and visits. He and Andrea had practiced this too, using the story to demonstrate that Ed had not only been physically violent; he had threatened her with a gun and made her fear for her life.

“You’ve told us how Carol sometimes contacted you after her husband hit her,” Andrea said, once Daryl had explained several instances of Carol having black eyes. “How you listened to her talk about it and sometimes provided her and her daughter a place to stay. That was very generous of you. Why did you do that?”

Daryl shrugged. “She needed it.” 

“Did she mention other things she needed—other help she wanted you to give?”

The questions was worded in such a weird way that for a moment Daryl couldn’t remember the answer they’d practiced. “She didn’t . . . didn’t want me to do anything. Just wanted to talk. You know.”

“Did she say why she didn’t want you to do anything?”

“She was afraid. Even if she could get away, her kid’s still gotta go to school. He could still get to her.”

“You mean Carol was also afraid for Sophia’s life.”

“Objection,” Loomis went again.

“Sustained,” said the judge.

Andrea pursed her mouth. “Did Carol say why she was afraid Ed would still be able to access her daughter if she removed herself from this abusive situation?”

“Objection!” went Loomis, which seemed stupid, since it was a fair question.

“Sustained,” said the judge.

“Your honor!” Apparently Andrea thought it was a fair question too. After a brief conversation with the judge, she rephrased the question. “Did Carol say why she was afraid Ed would be able to access her daughter if she left him?”

“She knew Ed would beat her too. Or worse.”

A mumble went up through the crowd, and Daryl couldn’t look at Carol now. Andrea’s cool eyes were a relief, so steady and clear. “What do you mean, ‘worse’?”

“Objection,” said Loomis. “Hearsay.”

“Sustained,” said the judge.

“Your honor!” Obviously pissed off, Andrea asked to approach the bench.

For the first time without Andrea’s firm gaze pointed directly at him, Daryl’s eyes darted back into the audience, the jury to the one side and a smattering of witnesses and reporters in the pews. Here he was in on stage for all to see, being made to sing and dance. But no matter how he growled, eventually they all turned back to the real show: Carol in a cage, the one who’d kill to protect her daughter, the one who’d probably do it again given half a chance. He wanted to save her from them.

“Let’s go back to when you met Carol,” Andrea said, turning to face Daryl again. “You said you saw bruises on her wrist and thought Carol wasn’t safe. What made you think that?”

Daryl’s eyes stayed fixed on Carol, the sea of faces around her a blur, her face a still point in the madness. In the set of her shoulders was a strength he did not possess—had not possessed, all those years ago. He’d never saved his mother; she’d burned to death before he could help. He’d never saved his brother; he’d left before Daryl had a chance to do anything about it. He’d always been on his own, responsible in a way he never should have been but responsible nevertheless, knowing what his father was and never ending it.

Now he had to say one thing. Just one thing.

“Mister Dixon,” said Andrea. “Answer the question. What made you think the bruises on Carol’s wrist meant she wasn’t safe?”

Daryl pressed sweaty hands against his pants. “I seen them before.”

“On whom?”

Daryl’s gaze flicked down. “My brother.”

“Anyone else?”

“Mom,” he croaked.

“Is there anywhere else you’ve seen bruises like that?”

Daryl swallowed thickly. “Me.”

A long silence followed.

Rick was in the audience, Daryl remembered dully. Thinking of that was stupid with everything else going on—with Carol sitting there, all ribs and bones, skin stretched tight, with Sophia far from home without her mother to tuck her in at night, with Andrea so stark and pale she was some kind of avenging angel, saying that this would help; it would save her if he said this thing.

 _Aside from showing that your personal experience makes you a reliable witness_ , Andrea had said, _it will make you sympathetic, and that’s important. You want them on your side._

What she’d said was true. What she hadn’t said was that it would make him pathetic; pity was the same as sympathy when it was for an exposed weakness, exposed failure, exposed guilt. He might as well have stripped down for them all to see, shown his ugly back and let them laugh.

“Are you saying you were a victim of abuse?” said Andrea.

“Objection, relevance.” Loomis sounded scrambled, just as Andrea had predicted.

 _There isn’t a record of it that they’ll find,_ she’d told him.

The ensuing conversation could barely penetrate the ringing in Daryl’s ears.

“Your honor,” said Andrea. “Mister Dixon’s personal experiences establish why he recognized Carol Peletier as a victim of abuse and furthermore why she confided in him. Since her confidences include the fact that she feared her husband was going to kill her, I submit to you that it is highly relevant.”

“Overruled,” said the judge.

“I’ll rephrase,” said Andrea, turning back to Daryl. “Mister Dixon, did you recognize what Ed was doing to Carol because someone had done similar things to you?”

Daryl nodded, his tongue trying to choke him.

“Verbal replies,” said the judge.

The ringing was so loud Daryl could barely hear himself reply. He felt his lips move into a, “Yes,” but the sound was so far away.

Andrea’s voice was as cool as ever, but softer now, for him. “Was it your father?”

“Yes.”

“Does Ed Peletier remind you of your father? Is he why you knew what kind of help Carol Peletier needed, why you knew Ed could become violent if you or Carol tried to stop him, why you provided a safe space for Carol?”

“Objection,” said Loomis. “Compound question. And your honor—”

“That’s alright,” Andrea said gracefully. “I withdraw the question. Instead I’ll just ask this.” She turned to Daryl. “Mister Dixon. Is your father the reason you wanted to help Carol Peletier—because you identified with her; you cared about her; you wanted to save her as you hadn’t been able to save your own mother and yourself?”

Daryl knew the question because they had practiced it, but the words themselves were mumbo-jumbo, a tumble of sounds like background noise. 

“Mister Dixon,” said Andrea.

“Yes,” said Daryl.

“No further questions,” said Andrea.

*

Sounds followed—Andrea taking her seat, Loomis standing up, but all of it had a muted, shuffling quality underneath the ringing. The high sound was everywhere, like the hum of an air conditioning, like some kind of machine used to dampen and distort other noises.

Rick was somewhere in the audience but Daryl couldn’t think of him. He couldn’t think of Carol; he tried to see her—that still point in a roiling blur, but there was nothing there. He tried to see Andrea—hard and reliable as a statue of blind justice, but somehow she had melted, and he couldn’t see out of his eyes.

He couldn’t see out of his eyes.

Someone was saying something, and Daryl knew he had to listen. Pay attention.

“Don’t be a pussy,” said Merle’s voice, clear and close to his ear, but Daryl knew he wasn’t there.

 _I ain’t_ , Daryl thought back fiercely, and slammed down on everything inside.

Loomis was standing in front of him, obviously having just said something, his sharp eyes and sharp nose aimed in inquiry. 

“Repeat the question,” Daryl said, his voice rough.

Loomis’s brows went up. “I asked you to explain the nature of your relationship with the defendant.”

Daryl glanced at Carol. “Friends,” he said, then looked back at Loomis.

“Just friends?” asked Loomis.

“Thinks you’re fucking her,” said Merle. “Woo-ee! Just like Blondie predicted.”

“Yes,” said Daryl.

“Were you ever interested in anything more?”

“Why didn’t you ever fuck her?” said Merle. “C’mon. You can tell your big brother. You told Blondie.”

“No,” Daryl said.

“What about the defendant?” said Loomis. “Do you think she’s interested?”

“Relevance,” said Andrea. “ _And_ speculation.”

“Sustained,” said the judge.

“I withdraw the question.” Loomis smirked. “Now, according to your testimony, you met the defendant randomly in the woods, and—without knowing a single thing about her—decided to help. Now, Counselor Harrison would have us think this was out of the sheer goodness of your heart, and maybe because you have a sob story from your childhood, just like the rest of us—”

“Objection,” said Andrea. “He’s badgering the witness.”

“Overruled,” said the judge.

Andrea proceeded to argue, but the voice in Daryl’s head was already starting up again.

This didn’t happen too often. Sometimes his brain conjured up strange things; one time he’d seen a chupacabra, but for the most part Daryl was able to tell reality from some kind of drug-induced hallucination. This wasn’t drugs—he hadn’t had any since Jake, and the last he’d seen Jake was over a month ago now. Daryl knew the Merle in his head wasn’t really Merle talking to him. Sometimes, though, talking to his imaginary brother had been the only way to stay sane after his real brother had left.

“You know he’s right,” Merle was saying. “Everybody’s got a sob story, boy. You, me, Carol, Sophia—I bet even your boy, Rick! Probably had some kind of dirty uncle; you know this lawyer guy probably had some neighbor. Don’t pretend you got it worse than any of the rest! You suck it up, boy. Tough it out.”

“I’ll get back to my question,” said Loomis, “which is—besides your kind-heartedness and sympathy for the poor, mistreated defendant, was there any other reason you decided to be such a loyal helper to her?”

“She’s brave,” said Daryl.

“You didn’t want to help her because you were attracted to her?” said Loomis.

“No.” 

“Aw, why not?” said Merle. “Don’t tell me you ain’t man enough to get it up.”

“You and the defendant kept in touch,” Loomis was saying. “In all those conversations about ‘running away from her own husband’—”

“Objection.” Andrea shot up. “Facts not in evidence. Mister Dixon didn’t relate any such conversations; he only said Carol Peletier was afraid for her—”

“Fine, fine.” The judge waved her away. “Sustained. Counselor Loomis?”

“In all those conversations with the defendant,” said Loomis, “did she ever talk about what she would do if she got away from her husband?”

“Objection,” Andrea said again. “Mister Dixon never stated Carol made any plans to—”

“That’s what counsel appears to be asking,” said the judge. “Since you established the defendant’s confidences to the witness are of import, the question is relevant.”

“Well,” said Loomis. “Did she?”

Daryl licked his lips. “Did she what?”

Loomis smirked again, well-aware he’d messed Daryl up—probably well-aware Daryl wasn’t too bright. “Did the defendant talk about what she would do if she got away from her husband?”

Daryl shook his head, then remembered. “No.”

“She didn’t make any plans?”

“Objection,” said Andrea. “Asked and answered.” 

“Overruled,” said the judge.

“That’s alright,” said Loomis, smiling easily. “I’ll rephrase. Mister Dixon, did the defendant ever discuss how she might support herself if she was no longer living off the charity of her husband’s hard-earned paychecks?”

“Objection!” 

“Overruled,” said the judge.

“Your honor!” Andrea sprang from her seat again. “Counsel’s question is inflammatory, obviously intended to prejudice the jury against—

“I said overruled,” said the judge. “Answer the question, Mister Dixon.”

“She said she might get a job. But Ed wasn’t giving her no charity. She worked just as hard as him, more probably, taking care of—”

“Thank you, Mister Dixon,” Loomis said, cutting him off. “So, the defendant planned on getting a job. She plan on anything else?”

“I said, she didn’t make plans.”

“Did she plan on getting a boyfriend?”

“Objection!” said Andrea.

“Or maybe she already had one,” said Loomis.

“Your honor!”

“Strike that from the record. Behave, David,” said the judge. 

Loomis— _David_ —seemed unperturbed. “Very well, I withdraw my question, but you see what I’m getting at, here. Do you think it’s possible the defendant, with her husband out of the way, would have been interested in a deeper relationship with you?” 

“Objection,” Andrea said. “Calls for speculation.”

“You know she wanted it, didn’t she?” Merle said. “She was gagging for it—go on and look at her! Waiting to hear your answer.”

Daryl couldn’t look.

“Look at Rick too!” said Merle. “Won’t _he_ wanna hear what you got to say?”

“Alright,” said Loomis. “How about you? You didn’t harbor any hopes of saving the defendant, earning her approval once her husband had been ousted?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Merle said. “You’re the one who thought maybe she wanted a piece of you. Free pussy on offer! Don’t tell me I didn’t bring up no faggot brother. Come on, you wanted it—maybe just a little?”

“No,” said Daryl.

“Why not?” said Loomis.

“Yeah, why not?” said Merle. “Come on, little fag-boy. You tell them! The way that slut mouth loves cock. The way that slut ass spreads itself like wet cunt. Tell them all about it—don’t pussy out now!”

Blood rushed in Daryl’s ears; all he could hear was the pounding of his heart. “I don’t like her. Like that.”

“You don’t find her attractive?”

“Not for a faggot like you!” said Merle. “Go on and tell them! Blondie wants you to!”

“She is,” said Daryl.

“She’s attractive?”

“Tell them!” said Merle, and Daryl couldn’t tell whether the voice in his head was delighted or angry. He’d never been able to tell with Merle—mainly because Merle was always both, and he’d never been able to tell with himself, because it was precisely talk like that that kept him strong, kept him angry enough to fight, keep moving.

There’d been so many times he’d had to feel pain just to stay alive.

“Mister Dixon,” said Loomis. “Do you find the defendant attractive?”

“She’s attractive.” Daryl wiped his hands again. “But not to me.”

“She’s attractive, but you’re not attracted to her. Tell me, how does that work?”

Daryl listened for Merle, but he was gone, just as suddenly as he’d come. He’d practiced this question with Andrea, but there was nothing in his head; it was completely empty, and he still couldn’t see. He couldn’t see anyone—anything; everything was just a blur. Even the ringing in his head was gone, and there was nothing in the world.

 _You know how many people don’t speak up, when they think something’s wrong? Too worried about exposing themselves. You did a rare thing,_ Rick had said. 

Daryl tried to see, make out faces in the crowd. He wanted to see Andrea, her cold steel; her hardness would give him strength.

Instead all he could see was that pink sweater, Carol’s eyes too big inside her face. When he’d found them, after she’d shot Ed, her arms had been around Sophia and she’d told her, _Everything will be okay._

 _You’ll have to tell them the truth,_ Andrea had said in one of their sessions. _I know it’s private. I know you don’t want to. But it’ll tear apart the arguments the prosecution will make against you, and against Carol. Just tell them the truth._

 _You did the right thing,_ Rick had said. _You stood up._

Carol had had the strength to stand up. Carol had done the right thing. The only thing Daryl could do was tell the truth.

“Stop being a pussy,” said Merle.

“Mister Dixon,” said Loomis. “I’m confused. You’ll need to explain. Why is it you say the defendant is attractive but you’re not attracted to her?”

“Because,” Daryl said. The only thing he could see was Carol, and he hoped she could see the apology in his eyes. “I ain’t into girls.” Then, before Loomis could demand clarification, and because Andrea said it was important: “I like—I do men. I like to be with men.”

The roar in Daryl’s ears covered up the rest.

*

Andrea called that night, but Daryl didn’t answer. For the first time since he’d thrown it away, he wished he’d saved some of Merle’s coke. Instead he had a bottle of Jack and fell asleep.

*

Carol was testifying the next day. Daryl arrived late, slid into the pew in back. He didn’t want to see anyone at all, especially all the audience and jurors and everyone who had heard his testimony yesterday. Missing Carol’s testimony felt wrong, however, and Andrea had told him it was the last thing in her case. After that it’d be over and up to the jury to decide. Maybe they’d even decide today and then it would all be over. He could crawl into a hole and die.

Carol wouldn’t want him around anymore now she knew that he was sick like that. She wouldn’t want him around Sophia, and Rick . . . Rick.

Rick was such a storybook hero he’d probably think it was okay. He’d probably think everyone had flaws and even if Daryl was a pervert, he wasn’t hurting no one. He’d probably say something like Daryl helped Carol so much and tried so hard that it made up for all the bad, and somehow the thought that Rick would still think well of him made Daryl feel sicker than ever. Rick didn’t know just how bad it was, the things Daryl let Jake say to him, the things he wanted Jake to do to him.

Carol’s trial didn’t end with her testimony the way Andrea explained it would. Instead the prosecution called one more witness.

Jacob Shot.

Later on Andrea explained the prosecution got to have a rebuttal. It didn’t always involve the prosecution calling another witness, but if something unexpected had happened during a trial, sometimes they could. This time, they did.

Daryl didn’t understand what was happening. He just knew a man who had fucked him was walking to the stand, looking like a million dollars, just like he always did.

Daryl felt like he was frozen. He couldn’t move.

Jake put his hand on the Bible, said the oath. Everything about him looked so normal. He wore gray pants. Daryl had seen him in those pants before. He’d seen him taking them off. He’d seen him slide his belt out of the belt loops. Daryl had seen those pants in a heap on the floor as he was getting fucked.

They fucked in the trailer or in motels. They never went out to eat; they ordered meals when they were together, had them delivered. Sometimes Jake went out—brought back Chinese food or Ecstasy or Pringles and fucking, Daryl didn’t know, ginger ale. They’d never been in a place this public, not together.

They weren’t together now.

Jake was all the way up in that stand, and Daryl was in the back, sitting there. Just sitting. He tried to move his legs and they were made of iron. He tried to move his back, peel it off the back of the bench, but it was not a part of him. His whole body was not a part of him, and then Loomis started his questions.

“Who are you?” Loomis asked, and Jake answered. “Do you know the defendant?” Loomis asked, and Jake answered. “Do you know Daryl Dixon?” Loomis asked, and Jake answered.

“Objection,” said Andrea. She didn’t know who Jake was. Did she?

Loomis said something about Jake being a character witness. “Daryl Dixon’s testimony,” said Loomis, but Daryl couldn’t hear what he was saying. He couldn’t hear anything. That ringing was back in his ears.

“Overruled,” said the judge.

“How did you meet Daryl Dixon?” asked Loomis, and Jake answered.

Daryl had gone to a gay bar. He’d done it lots of times before—not too many—just when he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d just want to get fucked. He’d want so badly to be fucked, but instead he’d hunt. Drink. Smoke. Get wasted with Merle, get high until he couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think straight, and then Merle would want to go do some stupid thing like pick up women. Daryl would drink some more, and do it too. Merle would want to go piss off a tall building. Daryl would get high, and do it too. Merle would want to throw empty bottles at dogs in the street and Daryl wouldn’t do anything to fuck himself up. He’d do it too just because Merle was, because that was the kind of person he was.

But eventually, sometimes even after months of abstinence, he’d end up back at that bar.

Sometimes a cock in his mouth was the only thing he could think about.

Jake had been a random hookup in a back alley. Daryl had hated it, and it had been better than anything he’d ever had. He didn’t have to walk into that place, know that they were all looking at him, know that they all knew what he was and judged him for it. Didn’t matter they were just like he was—nasty, perverted, sick—just mattered that they saw him and knew. They knew.

But Jake was just one person and he barely looked at him when they fucked. Jake talked to him about how dirty he was but that was different; it was just him, and he—he—he—

He could fuck like a jackhammer.

Jesus Christ, Daryl had given it all up because the motherfucker had a big cock and knew how to use it, and used it on Daryl. Daryl had given up everything, all of himself—his mouth, his ass, his fucking—his fucking _face_ ; he’d let Jake come on it. He’d let Jake come on his ass, all over him, and it was just because Daryl was a slut for it.

God, he was such a slut for it.

“So you were lovers?” said Loomis.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” said Jake.

“What would you call it?” said Loomis.

“Fuckbuddies.”

A little murmur in the court, and the judge banged the gavel. Just like in TV. “Please use appropriate language,” said the judge.

Jake glanced up at him. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Friends with benefits.”

“So the relationship was not exclusive,” said Loomis.

Jake barked a laugh. “Aw, hell no.”

“To your knowledge, is Mister Dixon interested in women?”

“Objection!” said Andrea, just as Jake shrugged.

“Daryl’s interested in a lot of things,” said Jake.

Andrea went on, “Mister Dixon’s private sexual life is of no import to—”

“Your honor,” said Loomis, “I submit that it is. Mister Dixon’s feelings for the defendant and hers for him provide motive. And I noticed counsel didn’t object when I questioned Mister Dixon himself about it.” Loomis turned to smirk at Andrea.

“But,” she began.

“I’ll allow it,” said the judge.

Loomis turned back to Jake. “You were saying?”

“Yeah, Daryl likes it all kinds of ways. He’s a real . . . you know.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to clarify for the court,” said Loomis.

Jake glanced up at the judge. “Well, I don’t know how to say it . . . you know, _nice_.”

“What do you mean?” asked Loomis.

“Objection!” went Andrea.

“Overruled,” went the judge.

“He’s a real slut,” said Jake. 

“For sex?” said Loomis.

Jake nodded. “Yeah, it’s like. He can’t get enough. He’ll call me up and ask me for it; you know what I mean? I wouldn’t be surprised if he was getting some on the side. Female, male, you name it. He really likes it rough.”

“I see,” said Loomis. “So—someone like that—someone who ‘likes it rough’—do you think they would be more or less attracted to an abuse victim?”

“Objection!” Andrea’s chair screeched back. “Speculation and _extreme_ prejudice, your honor. You cannot allow this to continue—”

“Sustained,” said the judge, swallowing a little sigh. 

_He’s sad it’s over_ , Daryl thought, but it wasn’t over. Daryl hadn’t had a coherent thought in nearly five straight minutes. He was hearing the words but couldn’t process.

“I withdraw the question,” said Loomis. “Just a few last questions, Mister Shot.” Loomis paced around the courtroom for a moment, looking as though all he had heard disturbed him greatly, putting on a show for the jury. Crossing directly in front of them, he finally advanced again toward Jake. “It seems, with your rather in-depth relationship, you know Mister Dixon quite well, despite being only ‘friends with benefits’. Is that true?”

“Reasonably well, I guess.”

“Does he seem like someone who would go to a lot of extra trouble just to help someone in need?”

Jake snorted. 

“Objection,” went Andrea, sounding tired.

“Overruled,” went the judge.

“Look,” said Jake. “I wouldn’t rely on him to help himself, much less another person.”

“So you wouldn’t trust his word if he gave it?”

“Maybe. You know, if it got him . . .” Jake made a crude gesture.

“Do you mean sex?” said Loomis.

“Told you he’d do anything,” said Jake.

Turning on his heel, Loomis beamed at Andrea, big mouth full of teeth. “Your witness,” he said jovially and went to take a seat.

Daryl didn’t hear the rest.

Someone called his name as he exited the courthouse. Daryl didn’t stop.

*

 _We did it_ , Andrea texted him two days later. She’d tried to call him the night before, but he hadn’t answered. He hadn’t even seen it; he’d been too drunk to care.

 _Cleared of all charges_ , said the text.

Daryl looked around the trailer. Probably didn’t have to worry about keeping it tidy, now. With Ed in the hospital, Carol had plenty of time to get her situation in order, find a place for her and Sophia and make it so Ed couldn’t get to them. She had a real great lawyer, after all.

Carol probably wouldn’t want to see him anyway.

He was happy for her.


	10. Chapter 10

Rick called. Daryl didn’t pick up the phone. 

Rick called again. Daryl threw his phone in the toilet.

He’d wasted all that coke Merle had saved up. Could’ve put it to good use.

*

Four days after the text from Andrea Daryl woke to find Carol in the trailer. Apparently what someone like her did four days out of jail was walk around people’s houses with white plastic trash bags, collecting bottles.

“What the fuck you doing here?” he asked her, too drunk and pissed off to be ashamed.

“I should ask you,” said Carol, fixing him with an accusatory look.

“Get out.”

“No.” Picking up another bottle, she moved on toward the kitchen.

“I said get the fuck out.”

“Maybe when you sober up,” she said pertly, just like she was his mom or some shit, like she found this all amusing, didn’t take it seriously, and he wanted to punch her. Wipe that smooth smirk right off her fucking face, make her see she couldn’t act like nothing had happened; she couldn’t act like she thought the same of him, like the only problem was that he was drunk and not that she’d found out he was a filthy fucking—

“Man,” he snarled, stalking toward her. “I can make you leave.”

She didn’t know. 

She didn’t know what kind of man he really was; the trial had not been enough somehow; she hadn’t figured it out. She still hadn’t fucking figured it out. 

Carol looked up at him. He’d thought before that people were wrong, thinking she was sweet and innocent, but there really was a sweetness to her now, and part of it was strength. Her look was so sincere, so unflinching. Two-thirds his size and not a single lick of fear. “You’re not going to hurt me,” she said, her confidence kind but just a little condescending as well.

He pushed right up against her, too close, in her space. He wanted to threaten. He wanted to hurt. “How do you know?”

“Because I know. Daryl.” Her shoulders slumped. “How could you think I’d give a shit if you were gay?”

His hands clenched into fists; his teeth scraped raw against his lip in a snarl; his chest heaved and he turned away. Oh God.

Oh God.

He didn’t want to hurt _her_.

If only he could break his own bones, blacken his own eye, pound his own flesh. He could sear his skin—he had before—but not when she was watching, and that was not as good somehow as being thrown around. You were made to feel helpless when it was that way. When it was that way, you could feel it was not your fault you wanted this; you could feel it was just what you deserved and you had no control.

“Stop. Daryl, stop!” Carol sounded as though it was not the first time she had called his name, but he had no idea what he’d been doing. He hadn’t touched her. He knew that much; he was all the way across the room from her.

Then she was coming toward him, her hand on his arm. He flinched away.

“Don’t be such a baby.”

Shocked, he turned back toward her.

“You are,” she told him, voice tight and none too happy. “You want to cry about it? Go ahead.” She waved her arm. “I don’t care. God knows I’ve cried my share. But you don’t get to pretend like I don’t care. Like I’m not standing here, right where you were standing. We’ve both been through too much shit for that.”

As Daryl looked down at her—soft curl of gray hair against the line of her elegant neck—realization hit like a ton of bricks.

She loved him.

He’d already known that he loved her; that was nothing new. Found it out in a million different ways—the way she’d looked, holding Sophia against her. The way she’d called him names and smiled. The way she’d always held her head up, even when she was beaten down, the way she’d trusted him and let him help. 

He would have done anything for her, and though he’d never called it love, he knew what this feeling was. It had been precious to him, all these many months, because it was a thing he could not remember feeling; his love for Merle was complicated in a way this wasn’t. The way he felt for her was so open and so simple; he just wanted to make things better for her. He wanted to make things better for her all the time.

That she could want the same for him had never once occurred to him.

“Suck it up,” said Carol, and then she pulled his head down to her and kissed him.

After a moment, he pulled away, unsure what to do. Her lips had only brushed his forehead.

“I don’t care who you like in bed,” said Carol. “I can still kiss you.”

He looked away, heart thundering in his chest. He wanted to bolt; he wanted to fight; he wanted to burn.

Slowly, he made himself look back at her. “Pfft,” he replied, carefully.

“You lied, you know. About having all those women over.”

Daryl’s shoulders stiffened.

“That time we came,” said Carol. “You hadn’t been alone for the weekend—your room was a mess. Was it Jake Shot?” She waited, but he couldn’t look at her. “You know he’s an asshole, right?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said quickly. He didn’t want to be talking about this.

“Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Finally he looked up, not knowing what to do. If she had been washing dishes, he’d’ve flicked soap at her again.

She pushed him. Shoulder up against his, just enough to make him rock on his feet a little.

So he shoved back.

“I’m a free woman,” Carol said. “Now you’ve busted me out of prison.”

Oh God. He loved her so much, and she loved him. She _loved_ him, enough to forgive him, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

As if sensing it, Carol turned away. “Sophia says you’ve been teaching her that slingshot,” she said, picking up another bottle and putting it in her trashbag. “Well?” Carol said after a moment, looking over her shoulder. “Don’t you wanna see how good she’s got at it?”

Sophia.

She was gonna let him see Sophia.

Daryl’s heart leapt into his throat, so he shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. She even hit the target board yet?”

Carol laughed.

*

When Andrea called the day after that, Daryl answered.

“I’m sorry about Shot,” she said, after she’d talked about the trial some. “David shouldn’t’ve been able to do that.”

Daryl didn’t want to talk about it.

“Menard is a prurient asshole anyway,” Andrea went on. “He just wanted to get his rocks off listening to that pervert talk shit about you. But I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve warned you. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but if there’s anything I can do—”

“You were protecting Carol,” Daryl said, cutting her off. “We’re good.”

A pause. “That’s what swayed the jury, you know,” Andrea said. “That, and your testimony. People aren’t as bad as you think they are. They heard what he said about you and knew him for what he was.”

Daryl didn’t know what to say.

“I’m saying you protected her too,” Andrea said. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Daryl didn’t know what to say to that either, but here was this woman who had heard every dirty secret, and still thought well of him. For the first time in his life, Daryl almost believed what she had said.

_People aren’t as bad as you think they are._

*

When Rick called, however, Daryl still couldn’t bring himself to answer.

*

Fourth of July was a little short of a month after the trial. Hershel Greene was having a barbecue, and he’d invited Carol. Told her she could bring anyone she wanted.

“And I want you,” she’d said.

“I don’t wanna go to no barbecue,” he told her.

“Sophia wants you to go.”

“Asshole.” Swinging his foot out, he tapped her shin with his toe, a forceless kick. She’d said it just to make him go.

“You’ll spoil her,” said Carol.

“Yeah, so I won’t go,” said Daryl.

“But she’ll be so disappointed.” Carol pulled a face, mock distressed. “She talked about you going all day long.”

“Stop.” Daryl swung his foot out again, pushing harder against her shin this time.

“I’ll be disappointed.”

Daryl looked at her from under the sweep of his hair, which was getting long.

“In you,” Carol clarified. “You have to get out sometime.”

“You ever let up? I’m the one with a job, here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Why Hershel Greene anyway? What’s he got to do with it?”

“I think it’s his wife. She said he should’ve gotten involved earlier.” 

Carol was in his kitchen—not washing dishes, for once. He’d made sure to wash every single one of them until the damn plastic sparkled so she couldn’t do them. The woman was like obsessed or something. 

“Don’t see why,” she went on. “Not his business. I think he feels sorry for me.”

Daryl glanced over the corner through to the living room, where Sophia was reading on the couch. “She’ll like it.”

“Sure,” said Carol. “There are horses.”

*

Yeah, there were horses. And a shit ton of people. Daryl almost turned around and went home as soon as he drove up. They had these big trestle tables all set up, a pit grill, like three coolers, and a keg. Might as well get a marching band.

“Hey,” said some woman, as soon as he’d got off his bike. She was twenty-something, tallish with short brown hair, mouth tucked down at the corners. “Maggie Greene,” she said, sticking out her hand. “You a friend of Daddy’s?”

“Who’s your daddy?” Daryl asked, then realized what he said.

Fuck, he hated this shit.

Maggie Greene just threw her head back and laughed. “Carol’s, then.”

Daryl just grunted. 

“She’s over that way,” Maggie said, pointing to where all the people were thickest.

Why couldn’t he just curl up and die already.

“Daryl!” called a voice, and Daryl turned to see Glenn get out of his car. “I didn’t know there was gonna be a whole village,” he said, walking toward Daryl.

“I think we got enough food,” said Maggie.

“Huh?” said Glenn. 

Maggie raised her eyebrows at his car, which had a Starr Pizza logo across the side and one of them light-up triangles on top.

“Oh!” Glenn blushed. “That’s . . . the only car I have.”

“Uh-huh, pizza boy.” Maggie put out her hand. “I’m Maggie Greene.”

“Oh,” Glenn said again, shaking her hand. “That’s Daryl.”

“I know who _he_ is,” said Maggie.

“Oh,” said Glenn a third time. He turned to Daryl. “I’m glad Carol got off. I mean, you know, got the charges dropped. I almost delivered you a pizza to celebrate. Andrea said your testimony rocked.”

“This is Glenn,” Daryl told Maggie, mostly just to give Glenn shit. He obviously hadn’t heard what had happened at the trial, and having someone there who was as bad at this as he was was kind of a relief. Daryl couldn’t help smirking a little.

“Oh,” Glenn said a fourth time. “Yeah. Glenn. Glenn Rhee.” He put out his hand.

“We already did that,” said Maggie.

“Oh.” Glenn put both hands in his back pocket.

“You’re Carol’s too,” said Maggie.

“Carol’s?” Glenn looked uncertainly at Daryl, who shrugged. “Yeah,” said Glenn, turning back to Maggie. “Carol’s.”

“Imma get a beer,” Daryl said, because at first it had been funny but now the tips of Glenn’s ears were red and Maggie was looking at him the way you look at an interesting food you were deciding whether to have for breakfast, and Daryl was done with it.

Moving through the crowd, he tried not to be noticed until he got to the keg. If he could get a beer and get it down fast enough, everything would go a little smoother. He still wouldn’t know what to say to any of these people, but at least he wouldn’t have to think so hard about it.

“That bike yours?”

Daryl turned. 

It was just some kid—round face, narrow eyes, brown hair. Pasty face. “That your bike?” he asked again.

“No.”

The kid tilted his head in an oddly familiar gesture. “Then where’d you get it?”

“Where you think?” Daryl said, because he didn’t need some snot-nose kid asking about his brother’s bike.

“Carl,” said another voice, and everything inside of Daryl went still.

A hand clapped on Daryl’s back, warm and solid, then Rick was beside him, hair curling just to the tip of his collar and every line of him clean and sharp as something from a goddamn movie poster.

“Carl,” Rick said again, “this is my friend Daryl. Daryl, Carl.”

There was a pause in which Daryl looked at the kid but couldn’t see him.

“Handshake, Carl,” Rick said, his voice a soft reminder. His hand slid off Daryl’s back.

Daryl wanted to curl up and die—either from the loss of touch or Rick making his son shake his hand, he couldn’t’ve said. Everything seemed to move through water, this surreal, slow dance, but Carl rolled his eyes, put his hand out, and Daryl saw himself take it. Daryl couldn’t believe Rick would even want him to touch his son, after the things he’d heard at the trial.

“So,” Carl said, pulling his limp hand away. “Where’d you get the bike? Did you steal it?”

“Carl!”

Carl glared at his father. “He said it wasn’t his.”

“Guy who owns it’s in jail,” Daryl heard himself say. “He don’t miss it.”

“So you did steal it,” Carl said smugly.

“Nah, man. He owed me money.”

“Don’t,” said Rick, but he was laughing—still standing beside Daryl, the laughter warm beside him.

“What for?” said Carl, eyes bugging out of his skull.

“The bike’s his brother’s,” Rick said quickly, before Daryl could feed him another one.

Carl looked at Daryl accusingly. “You said he was in jail.”

Daryl shrugged.

“Ugh, whatever.” Carl turned away. “All my Dad’s friends are lame.”

Daryl watched him go, unable to look at Rick. Unable to do anything, really, because he hadn’t gotten that beer and there were too many people around and he hated the way he felt; he hated it, but also knew that if he looked at Rick even just once he’d feel it times ten.

Christ.

Rick moved in front of him. “How are you?”

July in Georgia was hot and sticky. Daryl’d worn short sleeves again because who cared about his stupid arms; the weather was too hot for anything else. Rick’s voice was just like the air—warm, too close, surrounding him, just him.

The silence strung along until Daryl could feel the sweat trickle down his temple.

“Let’s get a beer,” Rick said, and Daryl looked up. “Too hot to be around all these people,” Rick added. “C’mon.”

Rick hadn’t asked. Daryl followed.

When they got to the keg, Rick pulled the tap into a cup and handed it to Daryl. “Drink up,” he said, not looking as he pulled into his own cup.

Daryl drank.

“Not too fast,” Rick murmured, once his own cup was full and he was looking at Daryl over the rim of it.

Daryl instantly slowed down.

“Hm,” Rick said, bringing his cup down.

Feeling as though he’d been caught out, Daryl made a show of swigging down the rest in one go, wiping his mouth afterwards with the back of his hand.

Rick just watched him, as though he was seeing far too much.

“You make that look good,” Carol said.

“Yeah,” said Rick. For once, Daryl couldn’t translate the yeah, and before he could worry about it Rick was taking his cup, fingers roughly brushing his, then turning away to fetch Daryl a refill.

For the first time, Daryl noticed Rick wasn’t wearing his ring.

Daryl hadn’t noticed Carol come up when he’d been drinking, and he hadn’t heard her if she’d said anything else. She must have, looking up at him with an inquiring face. “What?” he said, self-consciously wiping his mouth again.

“Is it?”

“Is it what?”

Carol hit him on the arm. “The beer,” she said. “Is it good?”

Daryl shrugged, and Carol rolled her eyes. “From you, that’s the equivalent of a ringing endorsement. I’ll get it.” Turning, she went and got Daryl’s beer from Rick, then took his for herself. She turned to come back over to Daryl while Rick stayed to pull himself another.

She handed him his beer and they drank for a moment, surveying the broad lawn. Down the slope there was a lake, some kids swimming in it; off to the other side was a big pasture before a looming line of trees. More kids were in the pasture—teenagers, maybe, playing horseshoes or something like that. 

Most of the people were on the lawn, though—had to be at least sixty or seventy, eating, talking, laughing. Some were seated at the tables, paper plates and barbecue in front of them. Others were standing as Daryl and Carol were, drinks in hand, clusters of people with their noise and fake smiles. If Merle would’ve been here he’d probably’ve been planning how he could scam them. Hell, if not for Rick putting Merle away almost onto a year ago now, Daryl probably would’ve helped him.

“Liquid courage,” Carol said, tapping her cup against his.

“I ain’t scared.”

“Pfft,” said Carol, which was his line. “That’s how come you keep looking for a way out?” 

Daryl had been looking for Rick, but he wasn’t gonna say it.

“Didn’t know it was gonna be a hootenanny,” Carol went on.

“Always is, with country club folks.”

“They’re not country club folks.”

Daryl gave her a disparaging look.

“They’re not!”

“How many acres they got?” That there were too many to count just by looking was obvious, but Daryl felt kind of like a shit for noticing. He could never help noticing—people that were well-off, people who had it good. Carol didn’t; he’d known that about her right away, in more ways than one. Still, he kinda thought maybe only people like him saw that kinda stuff.

If you had it all, noticing what anyone else had was considered rude.

A hand slid into his. “I wanna go home,” said Sophia.

“We just got here, pookie.” Carol moved to Sophia’s other side, running her hand over Sophia’s hair to remove invisible tangles.

“I don’t like all these people,” said Sophia.

“Do you even know them?” Carol asked.

Daryl squeezed Sophia’s hand.

Looking up at him, she said, “Do you know them?”

“The pizza guy is here,” Daryl told her.

Sophia perked up. “Did he bring pizza?”

“Sophia!” said Carol. “There’s plenty of food here.”

“But not _pizza_ ,” Sophia complained.

Daryl squeezed her hand again. 

Rolling her eyes, Carol said, “You _like_ barbecue.”

“Yeah,” said another voice. “But it’s not as good as pizza.”

“Michonne!” Whirling, Sophia threw her arms around Michonne, who had come up behind them. On her hip was the kid Daryl had met at her house, Andre.

“Hey,” said Michonne, hugging Sophia back with her free arm. Andre patted his chubby hand on Sophia’s head until Sophia took it and hugged him too, around Michonne’s other arm. “I heard there were horses,” Michonne said, when Sophia pulled away.

“I guess,” Sophia said.

“Is that better or worse than pizza?” asked Carol, sounding amused.

“I don’t know. Andre,” said Michonne, looking at her son. “You ever eat horse?”

“Yuck,” said Andre, and Michonne grinned.

“Where’s Mike?” said Sophia, looking around.

“Who knows, that guy,” said Michonne. “Probably off playing horseshoes.”

Daryl looked around because everyone else was, his eyes searching for someone different, falling instead on Andrea, moving toward them in a straw cowboy hat and boots, looking more Georgia than any gal from Florida had a right to look. Daryl tried not to react, but he must’ve done something to signal his discomfort because Carol nudged him.

“You’re the only one who cares,” Carol muttered, turning slightly toward him. Sophia was talking to Michonne and Andre, and Carol didn’t have to explain what she was talking about. Andrea had been at the trial. Not only had she convinced Daryl he’d had to say what he had; she’d also heard the things Jake had said.

Then again, Rick had heard the things he’d said, and all he’d done was make his son shake his hand and then go and get Daryl a beer.

Carol had heard it all, and she was the best friend he’d ever had.

So when Andrea joined their circle and said, “So this is where the party is,” he gave her a careful nod. “Good to see you. Carol,” said Andrea, folding Carol into her arms. “So this is the whippersnapper,” she added, pulling away to look down at Sophia.

“I’m not a whippersnapper,” said Sophia, her dignity offended.

“You sure?” said Tyreese, who had come up to join them.

“Hey big man,” said Michonne.

“A whippersnapper is a _kid_.” Sophia scowled up at him as Tyreese shook his head.

“Not what I heard,” said Tyreese.

“Excuse me,” said Andrea, holding her hand out to Sophia. “I’m Andrea.”

Sophia looked at it suspiciously.

Daryl thought of Rick, making his son shake his hand even with everything Rick knew. “She ain’t gonna bite,” Daryl told Sophia gently.

Carol nudged him again. When he looked down at her, she was smiling up at him with something like pride, and Sophia was offering Andrea a limp hand to shake.

“Kids never like shaking hands,” said Rick.

“Why, Deputy Grimes,” said Carol.

Rick had come up on the other side of her. At her words, his arm slid along her back, leaning in to kiss her temple while she hugged him.

“Is Deputy Chambler here?” said Sophia, sounding irritated.

“What am I, old shoe?” ask Michonne.

“What, you want a hug?” Rick teased Michonne, pulling away from Carol.

“I meant to Sophia, but okay.” Michonne moved in to hug Rick too.

“Ughh,” said Sophia.

“What?” Michonne looked down at her from Rick’s arms. “Man gives good hugs.”

“Hugs are dumb,” said Sophia. “Aren’t they, Daryl?”

Daryl shrugged. “Dunno.” He bit on his bottom lip a moment. “Your mom’s are alright.”

Carol’s mouth twisted. “I’ve needed a lot of them lately.”

“Yeah,” said Rick. That was all he said, but his arm went back around her. Carol looked up at him, but for some reason Rick was looking at Daryl.

And this time, Daryl could translate that _yeah_.

 _She’s safe_ , he was saying. He meant they would fight for her, and now she knew how to fight for herself. She knew she could ask them for anything and they would give it, because all of them had come out on the other side of something: Carol and Ed. Rick and his wife. Daryl and what he had had to say at that trial, the things that had been said.

Rick didn’t need to say the words; Daryl could already tell: Rick didn’t despise him for those things Jake had said. He didn’t find him disgusting or unworthy or any of those other things. For some reason, he saw him the same as he always did; _you’re a good man_ , he’d said once, and Rick still believed it was true.

Feeling heat crawl into his cheeks, Daryl looked away.

“Andrea,” said Glenn, joining their group with that Maggie woman trailing behind. “I thought I saw you.” He shook Andrea’s hand. 

“Good to see you again,” said Andrea, shaking back.

“Guys.” Glenn reached back for Maggie, pulling her up. “This is Maggie Greene. Maggie, this is . . .” Turning back to them, Glenn frowned in confusion. “Actually, I don’t know all you people. Who are—”

“We’re Carol’s,” said Rick.

Carol frowned around at the group. “You’re not ‘mine’.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, putting his arm around her, just above Rick’s. He could feel the heat from the other man’s arm. “We are.”

Rick met his eyes over Carol’s head. Daryl nodded slowly.

They were.

*

A few days after the barbeque at Hershel Greene’s, Daryl’s phone rang, and this time Daryl answered.

“Hey,” said Rick. “How about a drink?”

Daryl said okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm new to this fandom and didn't expect anyone to really read this. I've been overjoyed that people did read it, and that so many of you have been so thoughtful about it. Thank you so much; it's meant a lot to me.
> 
> I'm currently writing the sequel that is more Rick/Daryl-centric. Given my current enthusiasm, I do expect it to be finished, but it is longer. My goal is to start posting before the show begins airing again. 
> 
> I'm letteredlettered on tumblr, and don't talk much there but am always open to asks and chat. I love TWD and will talk about it all the live-long day with you.


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